poetics & the periphery

Every time I feel close to understanding the world the white kettle on my stove sounds and I rise, attending to it with annoyance and the pleasure of the unmade cup of tea. This is what it’s like to live in March or perhaps always, an unconvincing word in any context. Blue-gold on night’s branches what part do we take in the play? Whose turn is it to perform competence and knowledge in the absence of both? Unable to feel anything against the wind I know it is spring. Time tells me so. Never (equally as unconvincing) have I been someone with faith in order and human law. Love is unpredictable. Spring arrives regardless.