For us they are gifts to question. There must
Once have been a piece of art that was bad,
But could we ever know it, being just
To our survival needs, what makes us sad?
A book of poems! Unreadable although
I drink it in like this undrinkable
Cup of coffee, to be surprised, by no,
With, like heaven, the "not I," unable
To merge awareness, as if that's the goal,
The instinct to follow is dig the hole
And find nothing as far as you can go,
But what glamorous ores along the way!
The masks you abandoned in a fit of play,
Such secrets of who you are interred below.
