Guesswork
July 6 2008


I do not know what “the truth”
is in answer of,
because it’s not the answer, it’s the question
that comes hardest.
And anyway, I’m suspicious of the definite article,
because truth is never exact
— each eye-witness, his version,
every world-view
baffling to all the others.
And most of all, the values by which we judge
keep changing;
for the better, I can only trust.

Even this table is guesswork,
its hard polished surface
its fine grained wood.
Because matter is mostly empty space,
an order of magnitude
to which we can’t help but remain oblivious.
And if you map the firing of the optic nerve,
its density of data
is wholly inadequate
to depict the complexity of the actual world.
Which means that our brains fill-in the blanks,
some impenetrable chemistry
of memory, and feeling, and belief.

So even a hard-headed scientist like me
takes the world on faith,
stumbling about this place
mostly blind,
convinced what I see is true.
When all is really illusion;
my conviction, mere conceit.

There was a much better poet than me
who believed
that the eyes are a window into the soul,
and by peering into their black bottomless depth
I might penetrate your very essence;
each of us, surrendering,
letting down our defence.
That our eyes, locked together
our gaze, generous,
might reveal to us some truth;
or at least, get us that much closer.

Even if only to confess
how badly we want to know,
and how much
we need to be known.