Reverie. And consciousness.
Creativity. And acquiescence.
Heedlessly on the knife’s edge:
revelation on one side,
oblivion on the other.
So the morning’s breaking—
train of thoughts out of control,
between mechanical gestures
and voluntary movements.
liable to derail any moment.
Until the gurgle from the moka pot
and the smell of buttered toast
restore the domain of the senses.
The day has just begun,
but among the swirls of the mind
it has been continuing forever,
with no beginning and no end.
It is no use conforming,
spotting four-leaf clover in the grass,
following contrails in the sky,
placing events in a logical sequence—
what happens is,
and what is happens.
All the rest is poppycock.
Nothing can be framed into any scheme,
simple or complex whatsoever.
Not the coffee spatters off the cup
Nothing better left unsaid.