It is always now the tempering and the unknowing
since self-pleasing is the most unglorious fool in the fool’s parade
a charade of giving meaning and credence where there is none
or ought not to be.
Is always the governable queen in her right mind? Is her logic more impeccable
than the maths of the boy in my classroom who knows concision
as deeply as I know the reverse? Again the impulsion comes
and leaves but only stubbornly and as there comes an ache in my back.
Always the people here pour their minds into books
pore their minds into books
(the biology of it is complex but droppering into one page
one page of a cell and vitalism has gone extinct now).
The people do not know that I love
I love the eye as the apology as the bench-sitter
I gave a dollar bill but it was a quiet five minutes
pretending to be a justifiable soul.
People do what they can,
and what they can gapes imponderably wide,
as I am learning now, having resolved (though how steadfastly?)
that sleep can rest soundly in a universe of one, or in the company of other sleeps.
Do what is a collection of impulses,
neuronal at best, that tell me to act
on the side of caution, for what did I say
but that I love them all and tabulate for their good hearts?
What is the outcome but of course that
I flattered myself again
for no reason at all, no reason at all.