Knowing Nothing

Is poetry more
What you’re running from
Or what you’re running towards?

No, that’s not it at all
Its happening as you’re running

The cold air creeps in
The steam rises from a green cup
That looks more like a flower-pot
The calf out the window is calling and calling
Why won’t anyone listen to me?

She puts her cup down on the wooden end table
And dives back into her book on Mongolian queens
A small quilt wrapped around her shoulders
Her feet tucked up under her on the couch
One foot bent like a ballerina doing a pirouette
And I wonder how that is comfortable

But what am I running from anyway
Death, debt, divorce, depression, doubt
We could play this game with any letter of the alphabet
Still here we sit

And what are we running towards
Undying, utopia, unchained, unlimited
We could play this game forever
Like a bent arrow or a snake eating its tail

Funny how concepts burn
How the pace of the race
And the terms of the chase
Is a joke we’ve all agreed on

The world went crazy
Somewhere along the way
If I could only remember what it was like
To walk the beaches
In the thick of that magic
Before the weight of all this learning
Before we knew anything at all

Running from knowing nothing
Running towards knowing nothing
Knowing nothing all along

Art by Paul Gauguin


5 thoughts on “Knowing Nothing”

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