Let's be honest. It is here, a click a click away.
It is well after midnight.
Hot chicks. Nitwits.
Bomb wicks. Zip disks. Bisquick. Almost
Airwicks ®. Qix,
Half-finished games of Risk
with your armless brother. As usual, some formal tics.
It's lobster bisque. It's souped-up, jacked up,
kicked up a notch.
It's heartlessness. It's heart.
It's all your fathers' aimless stories. It's everything,
all, rolled up in a ball and thrown eventually
into the sky where it will in time become a star.
Its apostrophe beckons. Its apostrophe addresses
an abstract concept. Availability, for instance,
or tragedy, starlight, that which is and always will be,
apparently, like form, forlorn. It is just in front of us. An elegy. A windowframe. An opening in the edifice.
This is what those who submit themselves
to height and rock live for. All you have to do
is reach through it.