Mind Makeup

© Beth Roberts

The mind's not distinct till you make it so, made up of everything under the sun, the sun, other bodies heavenly, illovely . . . bore a hole in the mind, staring at the sun, scrutinizing any other object, one of any number of objects in a field, or the field . . . the attraction a clearcut border around which to arrange your arrangements, the concomitant trickles of your enterprise. But if what you have in mind is ill-conceived? Too late then for the love tap, innocence, too late for the hallelujah and halloo . . . . But if you change your mind? . . . poor thing, the shape of the mind's the same shape as the quell of the sun's prefigured blow.