On Knowing Nothing

The Slow as Molasses Press

I know nothing
of how anything works
I do not understand
Motion is a mystery
What makes things go
is not on my
dance card
I do not know

I know nothing
of how anything is
Even of love by which
I live and breathe
It is a mystery

What all this says to me
is nothing but this
That I do not know
That knowledge itself
is a presumption
that should produce
skads of laughter
hidden for the sake
of being recondite

Being recondite
now that is something
that I know
It is the art
of getting by
when someone does not
and thinks he
Except that I
get by not knowing anything
at all