None of us know anything.
The best we can do is win “Jeopardy,”
include, dutifully, footnotes,
polish and refine as we say what we think to say,
break the rule for the rule, obey.
The respected treatise on the stars forgot Psyche,
hiding from us
in one ancient constellation—
does it exist?—
a life-changing grin of gossip and love.
Would that ancient philosophy
have been aware today
in a small poem we could get this close
to actual wisdom? Would the philosopher,
peering past his tired white hair
have believed in his awful soul one part
of this claim? O black heart!
I know what I am—and still I ask:
does “it is what it is”
denote God, or no?
Is my height defined by the tall far, far below?
This poem. Slowly, Tom, climb down.
Join your friends, your mother! milling around
at night, among the statues. Go.