the deep ones
the ones that graze the ocean floors
of conscience
of epistemology
that I fail to have
being too busy with the particulars
the girl who died in the gutter
stabbed sixteen times
whose killer was elegantly chauffeured away
or the boy shot thirty times by cops
who confused the cell phone that he held
for a gun, or so they said
the man who walked out to buy cigarettes
and never returned to help raise his daughter
a whole society built on white supremacy
whose beneficiaries deny any exists
I never get around to Wittgenstein
or Heidegger and know enough of Kant
I think, to ever learn more
I write instead of a rooster perched on a rooftree
a boy in an attic wrapping a hangman's noose
a woman sharpening a letter opener
and let the stories wrap themselves
around ambiguities
or partial knowledges
and miss whatever pleasures accrete
to diving so deep one needs a pressure suit
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