We Mayn’t Know

 

We may not know

that we know,

may not see

what we see

yet we get the gist

somehow.

we may not be aware

of our inner landscape,

to map what we walk,

but maybe we have

an impression like moveable type

in a weak register printed with weak ink.

Maybe we note something,

the visible wave

of a fin

below the surface.

Poets can catch “it”

by inventing stories

on the spot

that swamp the memory

of the experience.

Poets want

this lightning extrapolation

on the page

to be felt every reading,

orders of magnitude,

up and up and up

and down and down and down,

intricate,

potent and forlorn.