let's say you're
a sort of pioneer
who casts-off for new
truths on each
day of the week.
One day, the sun soothes,
and the moon's a wedge
of cheese;
the next, the whole
solar system's some
godless conspiracy,
and you're scared
to look up, lest they see
your unbelief.
Would you still get
the feeling of
love at first sight
each time that you hugged
the next curve
of your silo?
On an exit-poll, would you
rate yourself as more
or less contented
than all of your
dear fellow
inmates who reside there
never to be able
to recall
the first name—
or the face—
or the smell of the
devil you know?
