The Problem with prophets is that they hold some semblance
of the truth and twist it like a ring in the light.
Enraptured. Distilled reality. There it is
condensed between your pointer and thumb
twisting in the glow of all.
What they don’t know — and what drives them mad —
is that they aren't holding anything.
They are pressing
their hands like children
against the outer reaches of some shape
that they can’t see the scope of.
They lick it with their tongues and their words
they chalk the edges with formulas and formulations.
They talk to it sweetly, stuck on the corner, stuck this sliver of glass.
The zoo is looking back
and is confused by those inward looking eyes.
Gelatin that judges the refraction of the beast outside.