bare feet
on a small floor mat.
an oval rug
overtop a thin wooden floor.
i could tell the floor was cold.
it felt like
it might also be
wet, though
my skin could not make this
discernment.
most of us are full
of a terrible rage.
most of us want
to make something
beautiful.
steam billows from
the conical opening
of a red insulated mug,
giving visual evidence
to the chill of the room.
i stoop down
to place my hand
on the small oval rug
overtop the thin wooden floor,
to see if
the flesh of my hand
will tell me something
that the flesh of my foot
would not.
the floor feels cold,
though it is not wet.
the world is full
of beautiful things,
some of which
we humans even
agree on.
the human is full
of a terrible rage;
we humans disagree
as to the source of this
rage, but
the reasons are always
the same.
we see the steam,
feel the cold,
test the material
for dryness,
wetness,
with several forms
of flesh.
still
we are only
guessing.
still
we question,
or, still
we remain
unquestioning.
moving
as though inhabited.
zakschafer.com 