I never stopped wanting the random world
To say something clear and other than
Random to me. I never really meditated.
I listened. I tried to pay attention. I wasn’t
Praying, mind you, not past the age of seventeen.
I wasn’t asking for any particular thing.
If I wasted time, it was not in the listening
But in all my studying about the world
In the traces left on the earth and air
By fellow, anxious human beings.
There is no human, living or dead, no artifact,
No text sacred or profane, no architecture
Song or painting that can explain on behalf
Of the nonhuman world, sorry, not even math.
There’s a humility to certain empirical approaches
That commit themselves to scrutinizing
What isn’t yet rendered human, but even then,
When we record and compare observations
We’ve already secreted messages that are us,
Not it. I set aside what I could of my time
Not to converse, commune, consume,
Or compose more lines, not to learn, but just
To wait for something to come through. It won’t.
It probably won’t. But what’s never, was never,
Might never be said, says something too.
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