“What can I know? What ought I do? What may I hope?”
From quarks to quasars we wonder and quest.
The climb uphill quells by life’s inexorable slope;
Whether glutting thirst or at grief’s arrest.
The questions can’t be quashed or placed in quarantine.
They flow beneath the breastbone and sea foam;
They whisper from each quake and from each wringing dream.
They are the street signs leading us toward home.
Through life’s quirks and quandaries and luminosities,
They rise under the pillow on the bed,
To quash easy solutions that lure and appease,
And flare across the ceiling overhead.