It Didn’t Matter

that evening was a mutant, a magnet, a metaphor, blending together moods of unlikeness:

landscapes of childhood, portraits of adulthood, combining in one dreaming/thinking unit,


you: large and small, unitary and scattered apart


it didn’t matter that evening was here, strung out and relaxed

like a just-chased cat curled up beside a shoe,



and outside strands of tarnished pure night, while I stalk the words to fill it with something meaningful or meaningless;

there is a certain pleasure in knowing how these things don’t matter

though they do, like the thrill of casting everything down, aside, around, between,

to get down to the work of not worrying so much, the work of dreaming words

into new relationships, new satellites, orbits, pictures of how things

might be or are, and so it didn’t matter so much when night’s guillotine came down


over the current world; sleep, all doused in make-up, was waiting on the edge of the stage,

powdery and excited, to burst forth; it would bring new tidings, generative power,

new things to assume and abandon

before morning came with its whole host of solid furniture and solid light,

and we started all over again

having learned nothing of course but what was essential, though what this was could not even be named

because it was elusive and would change numberless times

before sleep came again with its dousing of reason

and everything rushed together like a confusion of wind




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