that they just aren't
taught—
some commandments, so innate,
there's no need
to hand them down.
Such unique breeds of fact
are twisted up tight
and borne along inside
like tiny strands
of DNA;
they may wait years,
or even decades
to unfurl their truth
and replicate
while you sleep—
and dream
of a scene, almost deathlike,
in which even the motes
of dust are frozen
in a narrow beam of light
from a source
you can't name—
and then wake
to the littlest nag
of an ache
which, you now know,
will one day balloon
to a pain
so great
that, at long last, it
exonerates your life.
