In the corner of the front yard
Siberian Iris are preparing to bloom:

flat blades, oval buds. Every year,
I imagine a ship with that image

blazoned on the sail. I am waiting for
the ship to launch — but how it will go

from solid land into deep water,
I cannot say. The iris whispers

one thing, logic insists upon 
another. It’s a mystery,

of course, how to move
from one world to the next;

how to trim the sails, 
how to set the course.

It’s not about keeping
your mouth dumb. 
Not this time.

It’s the notion
that one can speak
and should speak
a vacuum into existence
and let it suck meaning
from what’s around it. 
It does seem like
that’s how you succeed,
you know — by aiming
a void at the world
and letting the world
fill it. Think of it:

all those philosophers,
politicians, spiritual
leaders. Your teachers,
your parents: 
they spoke, you filled in
the blanks.

Some of it
was nothing but blanks:
a kid’s game gone adult.

Make it make sense
if you think
I’m wrong.
I’m cynical,
but tell me
I’m wrong.
Look at
how it’s going
and tell me I’m wrong.

Tell me something
to help me
convince myself 
I’m wrong 

and I will say out loud
that I love you
and I will promise to follow you
into this void we both know
can be filled so easily
once we refuse to accept
that we are all
most likely wrong.