If you were to ask me
I couldn’t nearly say
I wouldn’t even try
how I’ve gotten this far
in this world.
Nobody ever bloody knows.
But there are all these particles
dancing and going about their business
and somehow they make a life.
It gets harder and harder
to write in concrete terms,
to insist that I’m telling the truth;
to write at all seems unnecessary
when everything’s true and everything’s not.
The longer I stay and the more I see,
the surer I am that I’m not.
And the desire to be known wanes away,
the desire to explain, obsolete.
For eyes I don’t trust I would stand up and speak
about, I don’t know, things that seem important
in the span of a day which are washed off the beach,
and at best join the ranks to be lost.
Because I’ve begun to think (to almost be certain of it)
that happiness doesn’t need to be proved,
and there are so many things which don’t really need to be said.
And I’ve begun to think (to be hesitantly sure of it)
that after anyone’s done writing their best
they will not write anymore.