sometimes you get a hit. a whack of inspiration.
you come home and cook a meal.
eat it. others do, too.
then you wash yourself in distraction,
your favorite kind: a Britcom, an
Irishcom—whatever imported mind-teaser
there is to be found after dinner and drink.
and then late, very late
when you’re channel-changing, trying
your strength against any possible reason
to pass out—it shows up on the screen.
the hit,
the magic information you long to receive.
the reason to be, to do whatever it is
that you desire with every pulsing beat of
living liquid that you are—
it appears.
the reason is serious. that’s all it takes
to permit you to go on, to know from
someone else’s writhing,
to learn that the why
is so.