If we ask how the enlightenment ends,
we’re told to ask a different question.
Language isn’t our first language.
These tongues are speaking in tongues.
Any hour, any day: the buzzard doesn’t flinch
at the oncoming car. Soon as we’ve passed,
he’s back to picking at the dead.
Has the great experiment failed?
Is the dream as we’ve known it now over?
Behind the curtain’s another curtain.
To strike a tone of hope, or loss, or loss
of hope; I’ve got too many cards in my hand.
Soon these chords start to sound the same,
though when played on different instruments,
they all sound equally wacko.
Not everything’s a metaphor.
The thickest fog isn’t even visible.
To make it through the cloudiest day,
I conceal my weapon on the roof of my mouth.
The split tongue of a snake—you know,
I don’t have to tell you this—
can do more than simply hiss.