You Cannot Know
You cannot know
in the time
right before the darkness
when all things
are almost blue,
when the colors are here,
but not
and there is a soft feeling
in the eye
of many fabrics bleeding
together – the aspen grove,
the dusky grass,
the departing wisp
of cloud,
you cannot know
when you walk
alongside the river
to talk about love,
where the geese swim
with their rows of babies
in the eddy
and you stop on a bridge
to watch the shape
of water,
how it fans out white
over the sunken stones
or wrinkles convex,
concave,
you cannot know
and so you don’t
and are left standing
grateful
with your blinking eyes
facing into
the center
of things.
