Dawnhead flashes improbable ground
of essence. Then thunder. Then leap
from bed to computer only to find
philosophical twaddle: Aristotle
and his to ti en einai (Metaphysics, VII, 7),
that whereby a thing is what it is,
fundamental ground of the soul,
whatever the soul is and who knows?
Return to bedrock, then, wife’s soft
round rump rising with her breathing:
content, for the time being, all we have:
pull duvet up, pat ground of essence softly,
softly murmuring love, love, love.