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.