How We Look
One can never entirely understand oneself, since the mind,
like any other closed system, can only be sure of what it knows
about itself by relying on what it knows about itself.
Incompleteness Theorem, Kurt Gödel
You say the desert forms
are stretched honeycombs;
I see sandstone castles
or faces with convexities
of curled knuckles that look ready
to disintegrate, and my fist
mimics the shape, my hand more
of a real mountain than what is
before me. Or giant's femurs...
a clavicle I look through,
but you see bees circling these parts.
You view the holes as filled
with a syrup, while I remain sure
of their skeletal nature, their dark
empty recesses. Outside your head,
I can guess at your need.
You may wager why I create
bodies of these hills,
but still you want a hint of nectar
while I wish for an insect with bones
and feel stung when I can't get away
from what I know of what I know.
Now these two peaks seem like forceps
or stirrups, I can't recall why
I think they are bending down,
patellae striking the sand,
to tell me sweet nothings.