Wednesday, February 1, 2023


For argument's sake, 
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?