there comes a point

there comes a point
when you find yourself
in a particularly stubborn kind of
existential bind
when the corners of life
become exquisitely acute--
--a magician's casket, your
womanly figure all chopped up
a mess--
and you stand back
and survey
the various dimensions
of time and space

cause and effect and coincidence
yes, it's true--life is such a bully
and yes--it really is this bad
you try to talk it through
cajole, rationalize, debate
crawl under a hole
hibernate
or self-obliterate

come on, face it, you've fallen
an infatuation
with your own secret self-loathing

but it is the mystery of confinement
of nowhere left to hide
that forces you to finally
after 33 years
self occupy
an unexpected and complete
love
and even better
a carnal insight
that afterall
you're gonna be alright