And after you are sure,
the idea is out to sea.
Screaming go and moving
among the good prayers;
your fine weather now
is all sun. Say you took it,
a lantern, twinkling once, more,
so long in the night
of spite and thunder.
But there was now, alive
for good, no sign of
spring, and yet there was
a pleasant chance
to think, and I sprang to do it.
Now seemed final,
and the law spare
and turning; sometimes you get
a chance and it is a chance
to do something else.

People go west—
they reach a conclusion.
No wonder, they wonder,
our sofas feel like necessary truths.
But what is necessary,
anyway, what is the story
of the analyzed history
of the world. Evidently,
we take these truths
and ride them into
the sofas. No wonder my desk
is, de facto, a gloomy objection
to rotten imagination. People,
they’re starkly two people,
their voices husky and sketched
like faces
I can’t really remember.
We’re saying this world is a thing
it can’t possibly be
a thing. We’re saying what
the molecule does
whatever. I believe a thing
and it deceives me, so why
wear clothes.
Is it possible I’m interested in
the state I’m interested in.
I do not design a soliloquy.
It comes to me in the night,
and it does everything I do.

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