Monday, March 7, 2016


Tempted back into the same
old caves again

by that faintly warm 
glow of inquiry,

we remain terrified—
at the prospect
of what we might find

when what
we see, we see only
by our
own light—afraid 

of what
we might discover,
if we were
to dare unleash the power

of that awareness 
which is somehow 
aware of itself;

our hands, trembling 
like pale fire 

and useless
to resist any longer, 
leap and flutter—

fan-out and
dance to their
inexorable work,

to chisel and wield-
away, making bright
pictures and tall 
words blaze, all

across and up 
and down the dank

sweaty and furious 
and completely 
out of room, we stop 

because we must.
And we stand,

and we look. 
And boldly, 
we notice—the truth

gleaming back 
at us, not

in the unfinished 
fables our hands constructed,

but entirely in the doing. 
And, having done

all we could, we can
at last, feel good enough—about leaving.