Beauty is a Truth
and has always been,
like Nature, a Thing Revealed.
Cartographers, you know, do not create
rivers, forests, clear mountain passes;
so, too, is the poet: a student, a passerby.
And, of course, what's now revealed
will be someday long lost:
the hidden treasure
(now gilded with a gift shop)
will lose itself once more for our dirt-
caked adventuring descendants to find.
I'd have it no other way!
What's the merit otherwise? Why else
do humans pursue Physics or Medicine?
Unless these endeavors briefly hoist back
the massive curtain hiding Truths
we young brief beings want to know, however
short it may be we live to see
these Truth-exposed times.
Poetry is only mortal! Thank God!
And yet somehow sometimes
she still reveals That Which Is--
somehow sometimes she is a puncture
in the fabric of Unknowing.
October 2016
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