True

One thing to being human
No philosophy can take
Is that the situation

In which you find yourself spins
On incompletely conjoined
Axes, one sense, one symbol.

Someone arrives with good news
Of zero instant impact
On physical maladies.

Or, there’s no good news today,
But the sun delights your face.
Neither teams with the other,

Except by coincidence
Or remakes of memory
And storytellers’ habits.

It drives war poets crazy,
Flowering meadows they sense
Co-exist with coming hell.

To be human is to know
What is is not what you know,
Even if both may be true.