I know how to ask the questions —
asking isn’t the problem.

Listening is easy —
just be still.

Is it there?
In her shrill voice in the twilight
in the bark below my window
in the cry next door —
of exultation, of pain, of sorrow, of life
why am I silent?

In my own mind
I have answers
to questions not yet asked,
for fear of death or deep despair.

Do you know where I wander
when my eyes are glazed
and my scowl is set
it’s foreign there
would you follow?
would anyone follow?
why won’t anyone follow?

Where are the answers?