Questions

If you ask too many questions,
the roads grow over with trees
and murk.

You lose all hope
of finding your way back
to where you pray you belong.

It's a tripwire
stretched across all of
creation:

try pinning a photon
to a map
and see how that works out.

Wondering
aloud to yourself
while marching
into wild places
is a good way
to get yourself killed,

although you might net yourself a painting
or a novel on the way.
Maybe a Theory of Everything.
Some momentary peace
with that murder.

I asked too many questions once.

It's what we lose
with our childhood,

When the language the universe
prefers
is resolute silence.

A march
toward whatever comes next.