So slowly order reveals itself, a turn
that is at once both structured chaos and
a precipice toward greater chaos, a drop
into unknowing seas. A paper boat
you ran down gutters after a heavy rain.
Aesthetics doesn’t concern you anymore.
The detailing hours are lost: the measured script,
the careful name, the painted figurine
in a land-searching pose secured at the helm.
This is the past, which is increasingly dead.
Make note of the pleasure principle: the first
notion of self as a blinding confluence of wants,
the funneled vision to attain those wants,
the knowing neglect for all that is not those wants,
all for a fleeting thrill; an open mouth.
You’ve learned, at least, that nature always holds
a more exacting source: a bulging cloud
before the rain, or mountain snow before
the thaw, each hosting destruction and design,
the poles that spin all choice to absurdity.
Each angle leads to boredom, each disposed
with efficient whips. A callous hand spackles
the sun-white flesh, the mythopoeic chill
descending down your back with reason in tow,
your stitching mind frantic for broader cloth.