Nothing In Particular

dusk: My terry-cloth mother absorbs all my terror In the pit of the night when my spirit lies bare; So safe in the folds of soft cotton care, But my terry-cloth mother is starting to tear.... ---Myriads of stars pierce the night and prick my soul, bared in the nothingness between earth and sky. A mournful cry drifts from the horizon's edge, and I wonder what is real. Am I more substantial than the wispy crescent of the young prairie moon? Am I just a pattern in the beads, diffusing in a world that bleeds one form into another? The banshee cries again, a tenuous song in an unsettled mind. My substance wanes this wintery night, and I am alone.--- night: ---A zero contagion descends, a soft lampblack flurry. Disconsolate, I write:--- We are vestiges of youth forgotten, Blackened vines, the fruit gone rotten. We feel no passion, heed no cause, Reject all myths, respect no laws. We have nothing to believe in, Nothing to feel or hope for. We'll be singing this song tomorrow, And days pass by like a flickering flame. Try to melt our hearts of ice And give us nonsense for advice. A spike of terror now worn dull Can't penetrate our toughened hulls. Yes; we have nothing to believe in, Nothing to feel or hope for. We'll be singing this song tomorrow, And days pass by like a flickering flame.... dawn: ---I cannot fight off the vacuum. Then, one terrible and kind hour, I come to face Nothing in particular. All collapses, but healing begins:--- Bright moments rarefy still amidst the leaden days of a grey winter whirling and creeping into my soul. But I believe there is substance in pain; I too wail with the far-off banshee. And now I know we are not alone on the lonely prairie. No, there are many presences lost beneath the limitless void of these frigid nights. Let us find and console one another. Then soon may dawn a brighter day! day: I am real. Now I feel. The universe cannot be a steely, indifferent place if even the tiniest part of it learns to care.