There are mysteries—why a duck's quack
doesn't echo anywhere
and: Does God exist?—which
will remain always as mysteries. So
the same with certain abstracts
aligned with sensory life: the tactile,
for example, of an iron bar
to the forehead. Murder
is abstract, an iron bar to the skull
is not. Oh lost
and from the wind not a signle peep of grief!
One day you're walking down the street
and a man with a machete-shaped shared
of glass (its hilt
wrapped in a bloody towel) walks towards you,
purposefully, on a mission.
Do you stop to discuss hermeneutics with him?
Do you engage him in a discussion about Derrida?
Do you worry that Derrida might be the cause of his rage?
Every day is like this,
is a metaphor or a simile: like opening a can
of alphabet soup
and seeing nothing but Xs, no, look
closer: little noodle