That we pretend to be enlightened in this life
Is a mystery all its own. I myself have wondered
Many times about the shadows made by fire,
Dancing on the dark walls of a cave, or how to
Measure increments of pleasure with numeric might—
Apparently some guys work round the clock
On stuff like this, but no one’s close to any kind
Of answer. And that’s what’s strange about this side
Of time—fixations on breaking bolts holding back
The mind. There’s a quote or two about it that I know.
One goes, I think therefore I am, and people seem
To like the ring of that, but such intelligence
Can make it tough to see the truth, since innocence
Can be its own discovery or existence of anything
At all is a delusion of what one thinks or hopes
To be. And is being actually a thing we can believe?
This mulling over quality has wandered far enough.
I say let the tissue-membrane marinade keep still,
Silent-soaking in the skull, largely undisturbed—
Bulb without a hum, hush of cinders fading out.
Because this year I did it to myself again—
Got lost in too much thinking—the dust and ash
Of looking at the pavement and facades instead
Of really touching earth—only seeing forests in
The trees inside my head and giving narrow answers
Like yes, no, today, and tomorrow. All tinged
With careful certainty. No bulwark maybes,
No thoughtful mights—no bombastic let-me-think-
about-its. I want replies so simple that they keep
Away the tragedies of gun-smoke gray and let me
Rest. Then yesterday a boy I knew died at his own hand.
I thought harder than I’d ever thought before, so hard
To wish it all away. And all I understood was how
Simple is the loss: a cord, an attic rafter. No moving
Parts or any explanation. No clarifying note or
Angsty teenage cry for help. Austere as pinching
Snipped threads of his life and putting out the fires
In his wake, the ones that eat at us when someone
Goes away like that. If you ask me, it all comes down
To this: we want a haven in the head, if only for a day—
A place of rest and home for the unease of memory,
An infirmary where lives can’t waste and thinking
Gets you far enough away from what ugliness you see—
Some hiddenness with no boys holding their own
Accidents, rapt in the uncertainties of gray.