In Oligodendrocytes of Critical Prose

An onrush of historical absolution
Unconsciously mimicking a form of grounding,
Suggests a mind itself infused with other minds,

Grafting crackling energy with the internal
Uncertainties on the wing, allowing the prey
To assemble itself from bad sex or failed love,

Clotted, compressed, apparently impersonal.
Fabricated, rain-saturated injunctions
In the seasons of respiratory distress,

The vast interiority of the small gaze
Set aside, the mind’s left twitching like a blue moth
On the surface of a waveless lake, accepting

Whatever inspiration will present itself.
Don’t work to evade bills that will never be paid.