You know the moment: this ominous
second of quiet that follows the
grisly roar of thunder, before skies
erupt into brooks, rinsing
the colors off the world, plopping
into streams that run effortlessly on
white, shining pebbles.
You watch winter do it's thing,
steep you with questions. You listen
to the sound of small branches
moving, spurred by
How much is there to know?
When will we know?
We know nothing, except that
we're billions of
sophisticated bodies with
an ubiquitous mind, full of
void and electricity and matter
forming and deforming in
silence, shriveling with
time into nothing, recoiling
back to absence.
There's an answer somewhere,
while you're alone
in a formaldehyde-smelling
staring at the elements of
the universe, aligned in a table,