John Abercrombie wasn’t wrong
But he was still too generous—
The truth isn’t we understand
Nothing. No, we don’t understand
Nothing, either—may understand
Nothing least of all of our names,
Least of all our conceptual
Ghosts. The name alone is something,
And most of our mathematics
Wasn’t unlocked until the key
Was found to be the empty door.
Our worlds rotate around that hole
In what is, in what we can know.
Our stars grow brighter on approach.
Thoughts spin brilliantly distorted.
Then nothing comes back as we go.