i entered knowing
now i am not knowing

i came in clear
now i may not be seeing

i can reset my surrealism
as easily as i can wallpaper a room

i aim to ensnare
some force
inscrutable truth

i was a gopher on a bike
but now i am a valiant widow

my son is my consciousness
killed on a crusade

now the crusade is a lit window
and cycle is a moth in sky

open to suggestions
any proposition
is beloved

will blow me to salvation

yet how much real irony
or tragedy
contained in a play

i act in and direct

i came in with paper
i do not know where it has gone

it may be this paper
i write on now

i'm waiting for beautiful poetry
to come into the room

but i have too much
voltare
erasmus and kant in my head

my supposed humble being
is so loud in knowingly unknowing

poetry walks by and sights
she goes to another cafe

my forced gentleness
i have become a brute

crusading
wallpapering and
widowing myself

but i will never give up

the idea of somehow
transcending

despite all of this

no one is separated
from grace


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