Somewhere
in this endless knitting of words
are sense and story
of what is true and 
important and 
though I cannot say
with certainty
what that means
in any given moment,
it is enough to recall
it exists

each time I ground myself
in the grind of bills and 
the scent of my overheated body,
each time I lose myself 
in the sluice of sound and 
the pick-pick-pick of others’ needs,
each time I catch myself
on the tiny barbs and
snags of what seems real.

Each time I find myself
a moment in a minute and
consider what I have learned
from this endless
digging and sifting, this mincing
and dicing of what one letter
may do to change
what I know and feel
and think I know
and feel,

I feel, for one moment,
better.  As if it matters
to anyone that I feel
in any way at all.  As if it matters
that there is a truth to be had.
As if it matters at all.