I know these sharp corners
and those serrated edges
and the logic of black ink on white page
and the spin of whitewalled rubber down potholed streets
and the piercing of the skies by our scrapers
and the scatching of the heavens by plane,
like fingernails on the inside of a coffin
and classrooms and boardrooms and meetings
and information and facts
or the foreboding ordered tanglements of a noose
and the Indy 500 and the Indy 500 and the Indy 500
and taxes and accounts and fractions and numbers themselves.
I know definitions and meanings and synonyms and opposites
and the price of a gallon of milk
the price of a gallon of milk.
I know the price of this gallon of milk,
but I will never know the shape of wind,
the path of the moth,
or this thing, alone in our world
A masterpiece aflutter-
but with the strength to travel 2500 miles (a fact).
I will never know the butterfly,
which is why my heart beats