The involuntary is always preferred,
So that ignorance is not just bliss, but life.
In the involuntary we rest,
And sleep, and do not worry about our breathing,
Do everything without effort,
Live without our heart beat
Ever becoming a distraction.
Or, when our heart does grow loud,
We welcome it
And its sudden excitement.
Everything is as it should be,
(I’ve always wanted to say that in a poem)
Even this rhyme sweetly
Involuntary.
Even on those days of rough fortune,
We would yet be smooth,
Watching our poem write itself.
It might tell us to do something
And we would not do it.
Or, we would do it,
As I did once, when you
Came to me, I don’t know why,
Full of purpose and trepidation.