Miraculousness without incident

garners suspicion.

As if the ordinary leaves something

out--of course it doesn't.

Nonevents are interested parties.

Which translate to cogito's media

circuis, bringing in a sleepwalker

for questioning.

Not quite with a suit jacket over their

head, but more like hapless self-escort.

The way they're put together doesn't

track, because they're not in love with

the heartache that puts it together.

A sleepwalker is only a sleepwalker if

at the end of the walk, they don't punch

the radio dial forgotten on full blast.

Which's to say all the innocuous detail

becomes a painful recap of creative

correspondence.

At every turn it's: What do you make of

it?

How not.