Sometimes I get mad that I can’t know everything. That I don’t and won’t.
I wish I knew every constellation in the sky, the names
of every flower I walk past in the morning, how it sounds next to every
booming waterfall. But I don’t. What is that painter or that one? What significance
does this piece of architecture have on the modern world? What about the rest?
I won’t know why the women come and go speaking of Michelangelo,
how the caged bird sings, for whom the bell tolls, won’t know
which tender buttons to unpress, or where my station in the metro
will be. Nor do I know if I’ll ever say, yes, I know love. What is that sick
feeling I’ve read about? I want to know the ache of knowing
that this is it.