Line of Sight

But where shall wisdom be found?
And where is the place of understanding?
(Job 28:12)

Constrained by time, I ignore the perils, pursue
what isn’t there, what doesn’t fit,
look with instant eyes at doubtful things, listen,
though a dying language surely lies.

Garden gods, their languid thoughts
fanned by mason bees, hoverflies,
draw up milkweed for a caterpillar’s long
flight home, urge a mantid on a lemon spike
to hunt for joy, while I dig the soil’s
dark horses, mind a lazy eye.

So much happens for no reason, and me,
growing old with nothing under my skin,
only this hard little ball—why so often
I fall silent, lose my location on
the palindrome, never odd or even,
sober at parties, nights of interrupted sleep.

Only yesterday a delicate rain cemented
our steps in ash; our two forward-facing eyes,
turned away from the volcano, toward a valley,
saw the same yellow grasses, same birds
ascending scattered trees, same sun
gilding a morning sky.

Now witnesses at my gate are apt to tell me:
revelation finds us out. Whirling at the end
of a tether, circle so big its arc is nearly flat,
I feel in the ferocious torque our great potential
to fly off, aimless spirits, meaning well
but wide, far wide of heaven’s mark.