to incandescence, a fluke new beginning for you
who killed god for breakfast and were hungry
again by lunch. In loud torrents, you unleash
a sorrow fed on clatter and matter,
a hatred newborn and blind, assembled
of no reason and because. If you give the torn
page of the manual a read to confirm
that the baffled masses are subordinate,
you’ll see live human action allows
materiality and mortality, mutually inclusive.
Would you call life a wife
without death’s cure
and healers for hospice
at the end of free love’s farce?
Your strange past erupts with lies
and truths indistinguishable
about how it was: weeks on end
without weather, a different father daily,
waking woozy and worse.
You lie down, yourself a moon
of your making, singular, ocular
occulted by your own dark song.