I’m not speaking to myself except to prove
that adaptation sparks a node of violence
against what’s unfit, like speaking to one’s self,
especially so early in the morning.
Half of the world makes a game of standing

on my throat, hence my heart strayed
and laughed while I couldn’t
catch my breath. I could speak easier

if the message was simple enough to convey,
like communion or the tectonics of a triptych.
There’s dogma in the sparks that motivate
flesh to conquer its history of essences
and it’s not fair to not feel its structure

after spending so much time manning
the searchlights. I’ll try to boot-strap
upwards in increments of infinitesimal
joy, but if everything is marvelous,
then what does it mean but to be

disconnected realizations coming
too late and already forgotten?

-C.S. Henderson