with their hands
on the monolith
are now become, not death,
but hapless
fish
who got snagged
in six-pack holders—
who found their fins tangled
in a flimflam of options,
or got strangled
by the disembodied
washing-hands of explication.
Great inviolate nets
of cause and effect
trawled through oceans
of perspective, seaching
for the bottom—
but such a glut
of explanations
was less of a cure
than a clue
to what was missing
and filled precious
little of that trench
in the truth;
now, none are left
to acknowledge
that depth
is just height as seen
from another point of view.
