I hate you—though I know you
have not caused this anymore
than I. The dust and sound
of bubbling rock beneath feet
expound upon in strangely calm.
The air; dead still but for car alarms.
Is this smarmy, set in ways pre-made?
Before this my anxiety was the same,
but blunted by something—hope
of no quake for once but quake came.
The lifting rise, the turning lurch,
all of this is just connected (as the postrstrucuralists
may well have said) by relationships
and a web of difference with no positive
terms. As the petals of a rose—no, daisy
held in place by water, by transparent stuff
these cells. And torn up just as readily.
Lets go even further back, I was born
my small ass smacked, and entered
this world: you already in it.
