Apologies to Frege, but the mystery is not
How the thought becomes flesh, but how
Rocks become flesh become thought, how
Thought first began to float free of the flesh,
A wanderer, roaming around the rocky world
From body to body, inn to inn, surveying
And marking trails through the dark forests,
Arriving this morning at a red-rock reservoir
Brimming with heavy, late-winter rains, migrating
Birds, and Frege. The mystery drifting under
The crying waterfowl, who have to keep thoughts
Mostly to themselves, is when will the wanderer
Be freed from flesh brooding and sheltering
Thoughts of mysteries in the flesh, free to leave?
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