At the stroke of midnight
I have little about today to say
thinking only and gently
of the demented men
who are not so much confused
by the absence only we see in them
(and thus they cannot see it)
but more puzzled.
The imagined tiredness
of a world they cannot get out of
like all of these universes
which still have the limits
we impose upon them
to in any way make them tangible
or even briefly capable of description.
How can we consider that which isn’t
in our own realm of self or space?
A mighty frustration
goaded by our own sense of significance.
The grand secret is that we are nothing
but the blindness of our emotions
which provide us with the walls
and the steadying illusion to keep alive to the last.
If only the impersonal value
of non-existence could be made known to us
and understood not just felt
but instead the connections between us
mother and son and on and on
keep us unfree but laced
in slivers of possibility
which is sometimes the midnight
of nothing left but the certainty
tomorrow I will not think of this
any further but instead stare
at the equivalent
of a familiar