Epistemology, and all the afternoon
clouds perform their dying, tusks and trunks
dissolving in a rivulet of cold wind,
the sky a promise darkening.
Will it rain? The rain says it will
as thunder pools in every vowel,
beading in the wild raspberry patch.
Epistemology, and through the sliding
glass door of the moment
here is what I think: a man loves
being loved, shirtless on the lawn,
singing the song of a fat life,
of giddy children trampling the lavender.
I close my eyes as the red darkness
blooms inside, the sky recurring
just so — and deeper in the night
when the planes come out to fly,
their windows clean with dreams,
and the dead heroes jostle
in too-brilliant tombs, I shall sleep
the cool sleep of the unexamined,
and I shall pray the dizzying wheel
might spin again. Epistemology,
the evening mist sprawls in the grass,