the indecision of belief
or is it the belief in indecision which marks his forehead
you can see the intellectual furrows
like a field plowed deep in expectation of betrayal
by a nature mercurial at the root
he sits with these corrugations
expectant before my lack of questioning
we are of two different kinds he says
I seek answers he says to questions I cannot pose
you luxuriate in answers to questions you have never asked
as usual I have no response
we
do not have conversations
he talks and I listen
he writhes and I recline
I will not feel guilt for questions unborn
which would drag me towards answers like the chained master to a wild dog
I am not responsible
for the myriad of answers which present themselves to my eyes
as the world surrenders itself to the photographer
who later colors their semi-tones with pastel crayons
given many birthdays ago.
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