The Poem After The Poem

So what do I do

after a poem like that,

when I feel so satisfied

I could jump?

What do I say

and what dreams

do I go back to?

Those are the kinds of days

I want to have.

Those are the kinds of feelings

on the ceiling.

Those shudders date back

to some dark month

when I knew the world

and the world knew me.

When things could be discovered,

and the atom was still

an amazement to me.

Why so jaded in the sun?

Why so lost in the script,

looking for my next character,

her next line?

Why make the structure

of the question

the answer?

Why make mystery

into myth,

doing my thinking

on the page

in runic séance?