there’s a
haystack.
some small pin inside.
billions search
for it. it’s elusive, or
unsteady, or
dysfunctional, or deranged. it
smiles when
captured. it must disappear. pain is
dust-machine.
we seize ghosts.
this is absurd analysis. while
we create friends.
they become instruments or
survival hickory,
while we deny they exist.
I dare to assert
normalness. some undertaking
in soul. where one
says, “Some element isn’t
connecting.”
by therapeutic
life, by rich
examination,
rereading self-help suggestions. or
asking obvious, or
conspicuous bark, those dear
devastations as
unhuman.
sounds are
titillating as unused cheat sheets
while depression
might light creativity. I’d like
to hear more, or
suffer for us as humans do; I’d
give skies or undo
whispers or baptize shadows,
if more love would
receive.
there’s a carnival
inside. clowns are unsteady. too
much depletion too
much burying or too little fire.
to feel
understood, as would a child, might become
addiction. to
adore like sinning might destroy
credulity. I thought
of essence as a machine or
dusk or twilight
so haunted so distinguishable.
neither us them or
spirit. neither life, death, or joy.
while deep repentance
infuriates pain. such want
for ‘things.’ so determined.
where existence is
unbalanced.
oh for our pin.
this drop of liquid. while hay is
splitting. a man
was pierced, a woman was struck,
most are ever so
close—to vision or prayer of
helium in our
members.
