It doesn’t require a title just yet. Doesn’t need
a name. Inchoate and as yet lawless, good enough
for understanding, knowing the fulness of it
waits to be seen, waits to be felt as it
slams down, socks in.

Before it arrived I was old enough
to believe in it at any rate, saw it coming
(so to speak) though it pretended to be invisible.
I knew no matter how it would present itself,
I’d fall under its rules.

I spent the morning looking for it
quietly as I didn’t want it to know
I was there. But I was there
when it arrived. I fell under its spell
and now I am both bereft and filled:

bereft of my thinking that I could escape
with so much left to tell you all I’d never finish;
fulfilled that I’d already finished and did not know
the line I crossed which made it so. I only knew
poetry and magic were all I had to give you, so I gave.