exegesis

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 once knew
once
when I saw
the warm brown egg
in my palm
just below the
dirty cuff
of my snowsuit.
I knew 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

there is no need
for gods and idols
…or even answers

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