They come to let me see them –
apparently to see them is the point.
They don’t know why I try to write
a commentary on their presence:
their presence is, I think, to them, enough.
Because they don’t care if I understand,
they get to haul their whole and subtle grand
complexity into the light: whatever stuff I may
have catalyzed to bring to sight –
whatever ambiguity – whatever odd velleity –
whatever taunts me with a need to know –
whatever that is, they would just as soon
have blow out of the window.
And so their floating permutations go –
emitting now and then a squeak or coo.
And so whatever sense of Soul I’d like
to think is lumbering below continuesits veiled peek-a-boo.