My Letter to the Unknown

The spacious garden Yet one palm cradles one lone seed as if the soil were different. The lamps are lit, but every flame

claims it alone is the morning. It flows silently, tearing itself into countless mouths— and the mouths do not speak to each other. I have seen bread broken,

but the hungry quarrel which was formed over the oven. Doors closed, I have seen, while the key hangs free in the air.

Tell me— the mystery of the seed, the flame, the river, the bread, the door— or in us who do not see they are one?