I wake up and it's three a.m.,
the ward of car thieves and bats,
my neurons firing like car alarms,
a mesmerizing mandala
of exploding suns in the multiverse -
that approximation of all that is stupefying.
Paralyzed with angst,
I lie here unproductive
scolding myself for
my ignorance of Eliot,
the new physics,
that old hunger.
I used to look to Freud for answers.
Now suddenly he's passe,
as in "Get over it;
your parents didn't know any better."
Maybe it's time to move beyond
this life of fitful births and small deaths.
Outside it's a cold morning
and I head for the bagel shop.
The heavy door swings open
to lonely appetites and heated imaginations,
people warming up to the future together
like family, like birds.
I overhear maddening fragments of conversation
as in some English teacher's writing assignment.
Finish these sentences and find the story:
"Did you read about that girl with ..."
"You wouldn't believe what came out of my ..."
"How could we have been so ..."
I decide there are only transitory endings,
that whatever happens
is created by everyone.
There is no full knowing.
We are all finishing each