Explanation

People love fiction for its explanatory planetarium.
The story is a backdrop to point at points
getting from one side of the road to
another bank, holding something like money.
I eat from the narrator's trough. However,
the path from beginning to end is too Newtonian
and consequential; I get the creeping vine feeling,
that sense that ivy climbs for more than aesthetics
and growth. And not as a spiritual mystery. I see
moral clarity the way an agnostic sees gods:
improbable, blurry, and embarrassingly juvenile. 
That's the explanation for poetry. Poems don't 
try. Each acts without acting, means without meaning
to, plays without playing, works without working.