Perhaps we are suspended over it
and the depth, not ours to choose.

Perhaps, poised or clamoring,
we are free only to leap or slip.

Or, perhaps, perhaps, the depth
itself is ours to set, but the fall,

out of our hands. Thus we forget
how it is we lay us down to sleep.

A body is always able to be itself.

(Every body promises to be itself.)

It is always possible to be yourself.

It's not easy. It is the difficulty.

No depth is reached
by poetry.
No, you are released
by poetry

           into it.

The scientific method does not produce truths you must believe but claims you can test.

A political mandate does not represent a right to be desired but a promise to be kept.

The way to truth
traverses error,
straying, wandering,
and forgetting.

The site of justice
comprises malice,
betrayal, slander,
and forgiveness.