the fact that

my every moment stolen by desire
for no more unsatisfactoriness
(is that the only explanation – like
cracks in ceilings, cracks in skies, fissures for

supernal light?) is lost on me but not
to time – you might have seen it too, under
certain conditions in the afternoon
clouds, sun, shafts… scripts, illuminated by

conscripted minutes brightening each page
one tears from life, the temporary waste
of ennui or of lust for everything
to be damned near perfect if only I

did not exist as part of it, could not
justify my presence with an absent
song assenting to a life not lived a
life enchained to the heaven that I lost