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Dear Superior Saint
I do not know the coordinates of Babylon,
The age of the moon
Or why monkeys decide to become men.
I do not know the capital of Atlantis,
If a fish still drink
Nor a whit about calculus' art.
I do not know so many things
Perhaps not half as you knew.
For my mind could only understand
The feel of a harsh word - like a knife that cuts through.
How one could drown in shame
And how it is to sleep and think of my stupidity
And how one could sleep and not think
How a world could break or be remade
and utterly changed - by a word.
I do not know how to be intelligent
And I wish it not.
For then I would not know how it is to be
Someone grand like you.
Someone superbly high like you.
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