f(x)suchthat
The horizon is
an abnormally linear
tract proclaiming
what may be,
and stoically I look
with focussed eyes
toward an unpredictable distance.
I see the gray fuzzing of the sky
below the dark clouds
and hope for rain
like God’s an artist
smudging charcoal
and giving me a sign.
Behind the silences we cling to
I know I can’t hide my eyes
which question language.
There is no Truth
there is only accessible truth
and Universal Truth
like some vague line
which we can but hope
to intersect.
I am sine;
you are cosine.