"By Faith, Not Sight."
We cannot get out of ourselves, to be sure.
No atom feels, no heaven comprehends.
And so, we hope.
Our senses, five or six, describe ourselves.
Could being be so numbered?
All the little strata of the world, the audible and visible
of frequencies, the findable and thinkable of facts,
could they be fashioned by and for our expert
self-importances?
Somebody I adored has died into unbearability.
But where is that?
Is where a narrow inquiry?
No crowd or radio can hold its amplitude, no air or water
pass for what is only passing through, a wave, a wave.
We aren't our lives, or anything we
made in man or camera's image.
Where is where?
Who's who?
The issue is not rhetorical.
Exactly what we most require, we're most required to give.
And even love, especially love, became a homelessness.
Now that he's dead, where can I live?