How many times have we ascended this hill
Noting the position of swans, the level of the pond’s lap
on wet grass, the straw hats of tourists like slow revolving UFOs.
Bags crammed with paper, we seek some kind of knowledge,
or just direction or companionship or whatever,
I don’t know. This is the first paradox.
This is the canon of the judges. Hammer by hammer,
each fact weighed, developing rules, rules,
we try to peel them back, to see what light existed
in the minds of the ages – treat your neighbour as yourself,
use your land so as not to harm another’s, and do not
deceive those who are rely on you. It is despicable.
Truths: People believe in property because
they need to feel they belong. They make promises
because of fear and rely on people who say pretty things
because nothing hurts like hunger in the heart.
Here is a pen, a paper, make your prayer.
Do you need a lawyer?
In the yellow glow of books, I study the day’s facts,
Extract the rules of being me. A dog knows it’s a dog.
A cat must feel like a cat. But I have no conception of myself.
I sieve the day’s words into the effective and the not.
Was I brief, concise, thoughtful and clear?
I just want to know for sure that I can be heard.
Across the script of my books, I trace circles
waiting desperately to see if the ends will meet
so that there will be no ending, only completeness.
These catchments are little worlds – yours, mine, his, hers.
I want to make them integrate but no matter what I do
The words are only fragments, they cannot form wholes