It Can Never Be Satisfied, Never

From the chill ache to the sea,
From high-canyon headwaters
To swarms of sun-screened tourists,

The human mind wanders down,
Chunking small stones on the way.
It’s a fulsome, boring trail

This afternoon, all downhill—
You’d think, with this freshet strong,
These days would be exciting,

The mind expanding faster
Than it ever has prior,
Flash floods always threatening,

But not to the mind, it’s not.
To the mind it’s rising wet,
Culmination of the fall,

The snow, the winter blizzards,
Trying to pour into each
Gully of skull its measure

Of extra knowing, fractal
Dispersals that meant something,
So to speak, back in the droughts.

Now, the information spills
Everywhere. No skull’s a well
In which to store rare info,

But every skull’s a teacup
O’ertopped by muddy data,
From mountain chill to the sea.