It was just a question between kids, or maybe
between a monkey and a tortoise; one who
liked to climb trees; the other more pleased
with taking his time

How did things start; the question waffed
by dry air, watched by the hands that set it
in motion coming to rest as a most fortunate
tenant on the back of the pitching shell

If it was an explosion maybe that’s why we
cannot live delicately though butterflies
and falling leaves pass through this life; even
as a mirage; owning their resistance to death
as a dream owns our fears

It must be like that; we live like animals;
reacting to forces that we cannot control
or understand; spreading our minds apart
like buildings scattered by what another
man described as victory

Though reason remains within us the decisions
we make cannot stick to walls that refuse to
stand still while time records every doubt
as to the meaning of islands and arks

But why would we blow something up to
create something new unless what was
to come was penance for horrors that a
youthful God witnessed in his progeny;
only the cross knows why