A push of piezoelectricity,
a thing old or from childhood,
like rainbows crayoned according to rhyme,
the stations of the cross, or pointing at sheep in a
field,
that courses through cerebrospinal fluid,
puts every hand on the brink of applause.
Hey-presto prestidigitation for predestination.
A Coleridgean pause before a subordinate clause.
The power of potential for its own sake,
which is tantamount to the stifling
of a sneeze in church, or harking back
to when car alarms actually meant something.
You can try and pretend all you want
but you have to ask yourself, why now?
There’s a time for everything underneath
your divining stick or heavenly body.
If no one out there understands,
start your own mental institution
cut out of ribbon, in the middle of March.
I validate my ticket where all the fine ladies
come dancing along the watchtower,
celebrating news of victory in a foreign war.
My kingdom spans a handle and a spout,
its governance an idea yet to be alighted upon.