Though wandering is the mark of Sundays,
This ramble masks a marching order.
(A mind-state, I’ve read, of neural pathways
Akin to brains with compulsive disorder.)
You wouldn’t understand it if I told you,
But the body you made me with your hands
Is the truest. Call it love or not, we knew
That friction yields fire—it makes a stand
Against the floating brain. (What do we want,
Really, besides information?) The trance:
I will conjure you, haunting your haunts.
That’s what the synapses say in their dance.
An empty return mars the hypothesis.
If I could sing, I would sing this.
-- Megin Jimenez