the singular point of discontent

I rode the original surprise down into existence.
From the first instant, the primal surprise,
part shock, part question: What am I
now?

And here's Time.
I know it because things move around,
things made of matter constantly
change their position. I wonder
if it ever stops, time,
if it ever does what's the difference?

Somehow it seems there is goodness
behind everything
once we settle in
the original compulsive act
is generosity. We care
but still can ask
how minerals contain feeling?

I rode the original surprise down into existence.
And after the surprise, my annihilation?

Am I a candle going out,
or a bomb going off,
a light switch or say
a placental birth, messy
and ​irrevocable?

And in the end, despite my urge
to compel the objects of my desire to align,
the surprise will be allowed.

​