There is a question
at the bottom of every potter's field.
It wears long pants and suspenders
and pours you a drink
as it leans away from the sun.
I was walking south through the city
on a Sunday afternoon
and I saw the question
scuttling in the shadows.
I confronted it with my palm open
and the voice of a little angel
and was left with nothing but tears.
The city filled with wind and dust.
We blew into the ocean.
I soon became a cloud
hiding the kingfisher that flies through our dreams
to keep us honest.
I had pelted the robot with all
manner of missiles but still
it would not give up the information.
Back in the pod,
I was held responsible
for the ultimate destruction of everything.
Even Professor Marienbad,
humbled as he was by invisible meteors,
would not receive me in his study.