Plausibility

The husk of you

lies somewhere

under water or

cracking on the dry

sand, a relic, amphibian,

a fossil.  Warm for 

the museum, under glass,

seen though water,

locked in ice.  Honest 

curiosity fills the emptiness;

your dead eyes

see like chromium spheres

all of this.  You know.  You

have all the answers.

While here, you have left

only questions and slime

and the awful 

gift of

plausibility.