Knowledge is facile alchemy,
like the thinnest shawl worn on the coldest day.
A harder task is the wisdom of not knowing,
Living within the simple pension, its meager means,
The sum of all limits.
Enough,
Like loaves and fishes, ample to multiply
For a single feeding—
Each piece a mouthful,
A plumbless portion.
Knowledge cuts and leaves wisdom’s scar,
One grows dull, the other etched in recondite minds.
Thus,
Turn each tender act into an eternal rupture,
Where the deep fissures of care are given
To those who dance through the painter’s pigment—
Those who want the unexpected word to salve
A fettered line.
Or those who never will be fed
By the unattended dinner.
