Another 1990s poem finally finished. 4/2026 (c)
What do I know about angels,
Cherubim, Seraphim—
Incubus, Succubus—
an assemblage imagined
to praise or accuse?
If man is in a forest and an angel falls
how is it we pretend to hear it?
I don’t know about Russia
beyond its shifting sprawl on a globe
juting into the Chukchi Sea.
I have nothing I can say about Marc Chagall—
beyond comments about color—
his visceral use of red,
I misinterpret the floating brides,
mules on roof tops, rabbis—
which may symbolize wisdom or intolerance.
I was never one to cherish my roots.
Why do I feel required
to understand everything—
and understand nothing?
I cannot remember the last time
I used the word medulla oblongata,
and when in pain—
am uncertain it originated
in intestine, muscles, bones.
I know myself so little.
I know my lovers even less.
Sometimes I can calculate
what will make them smile—
a surface spark.
Beyond that,
knowing is fiction.
