Perfect?

A billion little kinds of perfection
that click, no, they
slide together
and FIT and no, they don’t make
any kind of sense but
that’s alright
because they say something—
I don’t Know
what but but but but but
I can FEEL what it means
and that’s all poetry
is anyway.
Leaves and blue skies
that don’t count ‘cause
gray skies give a better Light
that’s stolen from I-Don’t-Know-Where
which is somewhere near
India
only not very—
somewhere where the Mist
isn’t as cold as it is here.
Nowhere, that’s the
place.
Go there and we’ll forget
you ever were Somewhere
and when you come back with your
sunny souvenirs and your wiped-blank
rolls of Film
we’ll Ahhh over the
white pictures on the slideshow
as you stand by, grinning
proudly at the wonderful places
you’ve gone and we haven’t, though
We’re all Nowhere anyway
and Nobodies to fit
‘cause all the Neighbors are, too
and whispers are hard to hear
over the microphone’d shouts
and the rustle of your
past & your money leaving
your hands.
Besides, everyone knows not to
listen to whispers anyway—
they’re just trying to sell us
Crackpot Religions
& Conspiracy Theories
& Strange Ideas, dontcha Know?
They’re just what we
Think but
we should know by now
not everything we think is
True.
Swim with the girls and the boys
in pools of high-fructose corn syrup
and pretend that’s perfection
enough.