We know everything. We read a lot.
We understand how things work.
We’ve mastered the calculus,
foreseen the vectors of cause and effect,
and applied ourselves
to the the necessary lies and habits,
the anesthesia of busyness,
the closure of certainty.
We already know everything,
everything worth knowing, anyway,
so much that nothing else can get in,
nothing worm its way into
our philosophical offshore account.
We are secure,
under that something
we didn’t know of,
didn’t know there was anything under,
something swells, something in darkness
moves, draws near, gathers,
like stellar dust coalescing into a planet.
A tenderness honeys in an open field.
A mystery leans toward us
as if to touch us, as if to whisper:
You have no idea
how much I want to be with you.
—November 29, 2017