What We Know, or Not – a poem by Donna Pucciani

What We Know, or Not


Through the mounds of drifted white
	a squirrel, perhaps, leaves its trail,
has leapt from hedge to tree
		then scrambled up the trunk
			to hang on a branch, or not,
daring itself to fall, then darts to sturdiness,
	sits with an acorn in near-human hands, 
		hunched like The Thinker before
			the downward scurry.	
Only conjecture.

Eons above, on a winter’s night, Orion
	searches for bits of stars that fell
		from his belt and became
			neutrinos or some-such
invisible particles. The glow of the Milky Way
	is lost in dark matter, which probably exists
		and could swallow everything whole at any moment,
			licking its lips, filling its dark belly
with nothingness. And through it all

the world keeps turning, stars keep spinning 
		in a cosmic sleight-of-hand, where
humans are pulled out of a hat like rabbits, or not,
		like a coin in the hand of a magician who tucks it 
	behind the ear of a child at a birthday party, when 
		tricks are applauded, tracks left
			on a snow-covered garden,
and we try to guess
		what is the truth.

Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, ParisLitUp, Meniscus, Agenda, Gradiva and other journals. Her most recent book of poetry is EDGES.

1 Comment

  1. Very evocative. I wish I’d written it!

    Liked by 1 person

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