If I could find my menial way
through all my menial ways.
[Light—on only to find my bed,
and—off
to sleep in it.]

But if I had a perfect memory,
I'd never write again,
or if All Those were there
...when I needed...
shedding layers of mouth
for dreams to matter.

We play this worldly-game, Charades,
with no room for Soul to answer—in
that voice from your head when sensing humor,
though never quite your own,

or complicit movements
to remember 'continue,' which
you have to be willing to do
and can't even pretend to remember
what it was you weren't trying too.

There, it suffice to see me suffer,
because I no longer know
if the thing we can't define
is even achievable,.. accessible;
and whether this worries me
is solely up to you.