Apophatic

O absent Mind, blank where I fire this prayer,

tongue-tangled Word my neurons flash into flesh

because they must, might you be this: a brash-

ness of Terrible Two whose wild career

of sheer will muddles all my mother-care?

whose not-a-care heaves flood and avalanche?

lets blocky Towers tippy-topple and crash?

giggles delight while crackhead comets steer

headlong at little worlds? Might you be this:

all pink-cheeked lovable but not yet master

at seeing your lovely patterns as disaster?

So rapt up in unwinding fiddle-ferns

you think death changes nothing?

all error. But it helps me come to terms.