Not Knowing What Comes Next

The bench.
The ground.
The empty spaces.
The interstitial spaces between these spaces.
These are the things that hold this body
up in this enclosure of bug throngs and brown, wilted leaves.
The hand grabs the imagination by the waist.
Spin, spin, spin.
What words will spill onto the page?
What words will remain occulted?

An immaculate ecstasy outlives the vicissitudes
of the known.
When we try to capture it, it flees.
When we try to dissect it, it slithers off the table.
It will outlive all the epochs of history (that ecstasy,
supreme, oh so supreme), and it will silently rule in all of them.

I don’t want to know what awaits around the bend or corner.
I don’t want to procure the ambitions that feed the gluttonous,
spoiled-child of culture.
I want nothing but this awareness.
The perceptions that are mine for a time are fine, yes, but the awareness
Is greater.
The Secret Eye.
The Eye of the Heart.

Not knowing what comes next is best.