There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
No there’s not.
—Finn Trommer, 5 “and a half” years old
All day I practice not knowing. But damned
if that slinky surety doesn’t sink in. No, no
that’s not a dinosaur print, I tell my son,
when he shows me a strange swirl in the sandstone.
Yes, I tell Wendy. You can plant the individual
garlic cloves, and then admit moments later
I just do not know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
There was a time when I thought I did. And perhaps
it is better now. These days, how I notice
everything—the shadowed wrinkles on the cliffs,
the high-voltage scent of wild rose in the morning air—
but it’s not everything, and I can’t help but wonder what I miss.
What I miss, well, the I think I know the list is endless. Perhaps
there were multiple suns in the sky—
I don’t know. I was looking down at the most curious,
strange and wonderful shadows.