There are so many minutes in a day
and trying to account for each of them
leads nowhere but to madness. No, to live
we must let the minutes swim by us
like clouds of minnows, undifferentiated
one from the other yet speaking to us
as shadows speak—tongueless, tenebrous,
unintentional messengers of time.
The brain is the ocean inside us—we wake,
we sleep—how much we care and how little
we know. This richness is almost beyond us,
but because we are human we stretch our nets,
torn by storms of dread and spliced by hope, to seine
for something shining from the deep.