My head hurts and is full of cold elbows.
There is considerable peace in ignorance
but only when you can accept you are a fool
and
a fool smothered in obscurity like a blanket.

I think it is like drowning
and the quiet comes only when it is too late.
There’s no use in that quiet.
It’s a tyranny of inevitability.

There can be no growth
no development
all those cornerstones of a refined thinking.
We must go on!
But not only on
also Up.

Because without ascent there is no restlessness.

Where are you going if you are not going?
The plane tree is still
and dies in winter.
You will die, too.

And yet there is value in the death.

It makes a space

A space for better.
Polygons in blanched artichoke
wither and drop soundless.
There is no dignity in the dying

no sudden lapse into un-being

no vanishing.

Instead
the shapes grow steadily smaller.
In this exists a universality.
At the peak of the ascent
[no matter how high]

there is a falling.

Not a placid waft.
You will collect yourself
shrieking

at the edges of emptiness.
And they will crush the vessel underfoot
all unknowing
as they dance their love for you.