Guesswork  

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​I believe firmly in:
what will be words 
of Post- H. Sapiens,
whatever replaces 
telescopes, 
bookaholics  
perusing under 
foregone trees. 

Less so, but still:
in figures withheld by corner
-eye, there, gone; certain of it. 
That some clowns step 
backwards into forests 
with shushed index finger.
How tarot-seers claim us bird, 
then we feel and know 
this sudden beak. 


With weak inkling:
in an Ensō stroked over,
oft over, by the towering 
brush making many-handed 
flecks. Instruments these, 
and utensils made shrines 
for curated, cannoned lists. 

If nothing else:
in the flowered Calyx of Held  
where all things at one moment 
inter-are, inter-be, then expand utterly 
to the far reaches of mind, beyond, the next.

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