i should hardly know the difference between
myself and perfection. but i do.
it is written in our skulls. in the cavity of our domes of conscience-
in a sprawling hand
like a Neanderthal had happened upon a new skill
that allowed him to carve into bone
the very meaning of insufficient.
in a sprawling hand.
i should hardly know just how to find truth
in this mirage. but i do.
it is written in our skulls. across the zenith of oblivion.
with references. followed by a word so vast
it would save a man
to speak
"if."