Pain not as pain felt
but lack and war
is why the mourners worship More
and stack the filling and in filling well
do not quite feel well.
What’s more–do not know their mournings know
for all their Nows are lost and stuffed
and in the filling spill the hurt
into spaces where sickness creeps
and burns nests of Whyless Hearts
But there’s no lack of Whys
of morning meaning’s wild worth
just ask the mild moon inside to fly
in her opening and closing eyes
in her spinning west and north
But why must we eat others’ Whys?
Oh why oh why die in life?
When within the spaces well within
we might as well Why our lives
with the Whys that we own
all the Whys in which we dwell
and therefore become well as well
as the moon as she swells
and pours forth her monthly spell