I Know Nothing


I reasoned that I had fathomed it, comprehended it,
deciphered it, that I could clasp it in my hand,
and clench it and seize it beside my heart, but I hadn't,
not matter of factly. It was merely the smear-ness of it;
the mostly receptacled, brown-knitted, half-prized
keenness of it. I had registered that occasionally it was
less than whole, at least part of it. The wholeness was
a rather opulent, deep-seated idea. But maybe it was
tedious. Because it's the twos that split you in two. I didn't
know, don't know, about the in-between traces; the spaces
between Medusa's hair and her head; the savage
traces of you, and the savage traces of me. I couldn't see
that entirely, we are naturally unnatural; and while two halves
make whole

they are still two halves.

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