Hard for a Robe to Talk Back

There’s really precious little

Secret knowledge that is both.

Knowledge kept esoteric

Is mostly gormless nonsense—

Philosopher’s stones, potions,

Homemade glyphs, funny handshakes—

While knowledge of any worth

Makes itself known as weapons,

Swiftly reverse engineered,

Dragged out by espionage,

Smuggled out in long-sleeved robes,

Spreading along the trade routes.

There’s a small in-between space

Where mice of real knowledge nest

And sing work chants and hone tools

Made out of the robe’s excess.

This knowledge is not so much

Hermetic as traumatic

And, while highly predictive,

Predicts what can’t be altered,

And is therefore not valued,

Facts only mice can’t forget,

Say, the wickedness of death.

Shake your sleeves. Take a deep breath.