Reality Show

They only want you to think
there isn’t a script: that buildup

from behind-the-scenes confession
to crestfallen admission, to wrath

then tears as cameras twist from face
to eager face in the audience? That’s not

natural outburst— and if for some
unfathomable reason that has become

a credible picture of the soul’s
, take me away now

and throw away the key. I’d rather be
a monk sentenced to celibacy, confined

to a musty carrel within a library,
assigned to a lifetime of illustrating

page after page: nightshade, monkshood,
bitter oleander, blue cohosh. World

ungraspable except in pieces,
world of unseen danger, unfinished

psalms and lamentations: your dust
powders an edge and for a moment

its parts shine almost like a halo.


In response to Via Negativa: Against Nature.

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