things just do not end (a literalist riff for now or notes for a poem maybe)

stuck deep and immovable it is as
background radiation one only occasionally now
tunes in but it is always there, can always be felt
still fizzing inside the aftermath of the blast
and what preceded that all now entwined and inseparable
so that now one grasps all of the clichés
and knows in fact that the heart itself is a brain
with forty thousand neurons too many

and it does not easily forget, though it fades,
as a plant denied light, unless dead,
ever awaits the return, ever feels the absence
as a presence, for something was changed
something that reacted and was changed
forever. biological, it feels, like sap or sex or screaming
or the echo anyway, which will not stop
and soon the second birthday and counting them all out
for humans are so easily broken

.