Questions
A Poem
Why ask the question?
Why pursue it at all?
I walk from the house, down
a path of concrete slabs.
the small bodies of bees
flit like cupids about my head.
I run now across the spine of the world.
I run my fingers across the spine
of the republic.
I ask questions into culdesac’s
Bonventre says I walk under the weight
of my own paces. I raise my own rack.
There in the suburbs where
eyes watch the movements of others
through TV screens and phones and windows
hallucinating a life well lived
that will never be lived at all.
I sprint until my legs are a gel of flesh
made meat made by dust.
(“We created man from an essence clay”)
Running into the end — running into the brush
wherefore something exists beyond the road
where words and questions-
-do not dare to tread their caustic questions-
like demons into the light of the darkening forest.
