I know. Right now,
as you read this,
or listen—so many things
you're not seeing, will not have
heard this morning.
For every thrush that's
chirping—which rain forest?
Every last night's gauzy
dream—whose murder?
Authorities maintain:
every siren in the distance,
every gallant black
batman-looking
helicopter on the scene—is hope
and significance,
provides solace and
explication, bakes another brick
into a biblical tower.
But as far
as our starved and poverty-
stricken insight is concerned:
silence is the mortar.
Traffic conditions matter.
The weather
affects construction schedules.
Not always, but
some days might start
with the premise:
What if there weren't any
small questions?
