Whether content or context is theoretical

or emotional is the question.

How often we search for words

like misplaced glasses,

ream the bottoms of coffee

cups, measure the blood-pursuit,

callouses,

decipher the edges of matchbooks

and circulars to make sense

of the crucially

nonsensical --

the rabbit and withered rose

patterns found on the wall once

paper, paint, and glue were steamed,

scraped,

puttied away --

a gestalt jolt of the relativity

of nouns:

angels, alchemy,

big breasts, small dogs,

lottery, adultery,

yellow moon, rosary,

melancholy iconoclastic

perspective of the expatriate

peripatetic soul,

periodicals, pool halls,

one perfect arabesque,

Elvis, Ellis Island,

Delacroix, coping saw,

red velvet cake,

solfege, testosterone,

phrenology, potpourri,

anatomy, matinee, tall tale,

email, Atlantis, french kiss,

sonogram, newsprint,

whirligig, rainmaker,

rodeo, maiden name,

April, tune-up, vertigo,

zodiac, snowflake, matrix,

cadenza, chianti, bare

feet, swing low, sweet

syllables,

cheap thrills --

We ran at the shallow edge

of that black lake we sang

all the lullabies we could

remember we stayed up

all night --

this is how sentience tenders

the nerves whirring a network

of response.

The work embodies circumstance,

clock time plus a little romp

with other

immaterial

witnesses.

Admit it, we can’t truly say

why we do what

we do, and accept one fact:

We need to.