A nonbeliever accepts
a kind of fog around facts—
believers demand meaning.
Beloved fog forms a tissue between them, like love.
Burns off in bald light, like love.
Nonbelievers just put on their war wigs
and their war gloves
from a fanned deck of brute facts.
To prove nothingness exists
you’d need just one thing that was not itself,
one x that did not equal x.
One copse of alders in one dim dusk
that was none of the above.
Souls are made up
of such obstacles.
And a nonbeliever accepts
that God is very, very likely.
nothingness is just not
how brute facts work.
A rainstorm, brute fact, shuttles brainlessly towards us,
and our evening is overtaken in rain,
rain and fog, infinity, the opposite of engineering.
I listened to some invisible bird
rattling off the facts of consciousness.
He used that exact word,
* * *
Readers are encouraged to submit 3–5 poems as a PDF to Wendy Xu for consideration at [email protected]