Phrasal symphonies, written and rewritten.
Left with the mere suspicion of an impact on things
through their subsequent loss.
It is a calculus of human activity.
Your blood sings with the richness of thought,
of what it is to be thinking.
All of it rendered semantically inert.
Terrified of linearity, of the slow progression,
you hide behind him, let him speak this falsehood.
Put it where it ought to be.
I decided it was a useless endeavor, considered it finished.
All the while, a handful of nettles burrowed their way into my clothing.
You see, I was trying to solve this puzzle—
even my dreams foretold this sequence of events!
You were an indefinite distraction.
These familiar tropes, bursting with recognition.
And so it opened, as a sudden field, once I understood
its utter lack of utility.
There are many things worth thinking of.
Many times it confounds me, but something must be done.
In dreaming, what once was outside now comes in, makes a fool of me.
The mind collects what it needs, focuses on what feeds it.
I stood there asking questions to an empty room.
You sat patiently awaiting the end of this masquerade.
Put it back where you found it.