Knowing nothing is all you ever know.
Like seeing the fallen cedar limb that has come
down while you were taking the temperature of tomorrow
with a question.
On a whim, that reckless cousin of fate,
you drive out again to that pond where yet again
airy thoughts collect into a solid mass.
Take aim against the water’s pale skin,
or at least imagine how a measured throw
might glance against the grain and skim
the order of things.
As if stories were other than a claim against chaos,
the invention of ripples from clean silence.