It’s All We Have
The landscape that we know touchingly we
Refer to as the present. It is what
We map and that is all. We cannot see
The facts of other times or see the strut
Of future or of past. “The noo,” as Scots
Pronounce it, is our limit. We pretend
To read the past but it is gaps and blots
In incunabula . To apprehend
It is at best lacuna and lost scrolls
In hieroglyphs hard coded. Tomorrow
Hides, knowable to none of unborn souls
Who may not ever be. We know sorrow.
..We know boredom and coal flares’ yellow joy.
…..Gold Helen could not conjure melted Troy.