the little fly shits
the sweeping seven-voice fugues
I’d say they were all poems
If I knew what a poem was.

I think I knew once about such things
once, when the world was still, and I might see
in foggy mornings the warm brown egg
sitting there, in my pudgy little palm
just below the greying cuff of my snowsuit
I would know then better than I ever did

or was that just the mystery –
the beauty that I saw
in that overlooked perfection

a mystery is not the same thing
as a riddle to be solved

So often in joy I come away knowing
there is never need for gods and idols

…or even answers




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