But he really hasn't a clue."
The first, extraordinary thing
About culture is that men sing
So much of it when they are not
The default gender. The argot
Of philosophes has no reason
To be evolving. In season,
The lake that I love lies beneath
Encapsulating mist, its teeth
Sheathed in waves of silvery mail,
As if no swimmer ever failed
To make it back to stony shores
Skyscraper height above the floor
Of forgiveness. Riddle me this.
The deceased will never exist.