All day I thought about a question
I’ve refused to answer for many years,

its shape now fossilized as if
in amber: its origins disquiet,

its aim to settle. It’s grown
into a thicker shape: layers

that one could peel away and wind
into a ball of thread to span

several football fields, an island,
a continent— really, a length

that might be equivalent to the time
it took first to plant it, ask it,

hold it; then set it adrift in what I
did not know then, as I don’t now.


In response to Via Negativa: Fossilized.

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