You can’t defeat nature, you can only
work with it. Just as speculating
on a perpetrator’s motives —sex as
power, power as hard exercise
of a phantom sense
of impotence,
blah, blah, blah—is trackless, so too is
asking what does it want, it wants
far less than you or I could
ever envision
in our least released
lives. It means no harm.
It needs a warm
host. We invoke genre to accommodate
events terrible and intimate,
to give fleshly narrative to cataclysms
of globular dimension— private/public, macro/micro
—samskara, samskara, these fictions sizzling through
the World Wide Gap,
racist, replicant, and species-specific.
