you prefer
music
without words—
placid ponds
without their ripples—
innocent
and easy
to guileless
and simple?
What if
there is no pond
on this Earth
which is deep enough
to conceal
from our trawls
the worst
synonym
for profundity?
In that case
(or in any),
how do you explain
your refusal
to engage
with the roiling pot
of your least
attentive thoughts
to your most
demanding company?
