Then, as in dreams, there was clarity and focus
and answers, always answers to all things.
The world was no more than we knew, and that
which we knew was small
	a frog upon his lily pad
	a twinkling star in a great black ocean
	the butterfly's zephyr while a storm raged half a world away
We did not even know ourselves then (and we were so
much less than ourselves, even now) and ignorance
was our strength.  Sharp, bold lines, brightness of color, and
always, always in slow motion.
We stirred and we languished, and that vision, that depth
and that clarity suffused with haze.  Words spoken vanished into
the distance, pictures yellowed to indistinctness, and it
would be ridiculous to invoke the name of memory.

There are other pictures, now, smudged like a thumb
across a charcoal chiaroscuro, as inscrutable as a twilight shadow.
Still we see, but we must wonder now at the chaotic
abstracts that present themselves for our approval.  So
much more we know now -- secrets of nature, of wonder, of
ideas and people.  And yet, we are left not knowing -- where
are the colors?  
	Why does the world fade before our eyes?

And where, where are the answers?