The Truth Is

The truth is that I don't experience
anything.  The sky is blue,
the sky is gray.  Day.  Night. Inbetween
you are born.  Optical illusions
still themselves in fingerprints,
in endless variations, never new,
circling around the pre-said,
the pre-paid, surrounding one
word, and letting the other one go
with a flourish.  I lean into the light
touch the tree and hope for snow
in the middle of July, just to have
something to talk about, some recipe
to keep talking about ice
but it's unwise to describe this winter,
or any winter: one smells a deception
of sorts, the way snow changes 
into moonlight, into the white 
of any eye.   If there were a god, 
and in the flesh,
and calling for me, I could walk 
around, I could wait a while,
maybe a day, and listen to those voices
in train stations, while someone puts up
pictures of powerplants.  Smoke rises
from chimneys, and a woman touches my arm:
Do you know from which direction 
the wind blows?  I lick my finger 
and hold it up.  She watches the smoke
rise.  The train is a point in the infinite
distance, it steams toward us, 
and I hold my breath, see if I can
finish this one thing, finish this shape,
make this thing grow.  The people
get restless, close umbrellas, shuffle
toward the tracks.  The woman turns
and mouths North. Grass grows reliably.
Even in winter.