There are the questions of the present age.
Yes, of course—but what are they?
We were studying the black books
wherein the past was positing its grudges,
and the chapters rise, not sequentially,
but exponentially. We walked toward
the carousel and past it, like thinkers—
rather, we walked toward the thinkers
fantasizing we were like them, thinking
we could borrow without any attribution.
It was one of many distractions, a pastime
for the firebug, the mountebank, the fire-starter.
What was the question, the heliotrope held
in the glove of the Remembrancer,
a basket of bent nails, and circular nails
beside the sunflower? When the bare will
was the mothering force, and when the prowess
was a lioness, every axiom arose,
a strange blue onion plucked from the breast
of terra, placed in a box for its ordinary
brightness. Thus imaginary fire.
Thus the lioness. Thus fire. But then again
to leave a thing unsaid, unasked, unanswered,
unuttered, to leave the blonde Protagoras
untroubled: this is to unearth the jewel
of what could be, to de-earth the very Earth.