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The Illusion of Explanatory Depth



I have questions for the dead.
But the living keep answering them instead.

We are deaf to the songs of the chorus of the dead,
even the ones we are made of.

I am one-fifth desire to explain,
four-fifths desire to understand.

From the sublimity of confusion,
the frisson of futility.

I acknowledge my casualties
but have no wish to count them.

We try to make the world conform to us
because we are too small to conform to it.

We resist everything except for embrace.
We embrace resistance.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.