shall I hate you for having not, afar,
heard well ahead what was afoot; or smelled,
a way's, what in the air; or felt, miles
away, the course the breeze had turned to blow.
I understand your not trusting me here,
so rarely have I got it right, and I
don't trust me either---yet do not detest
me when I keep my word imperfectly,
for this is what we can trust in ourself:
imperfect. Yes, forsooth, soothsay, it is
the opposite of that we cannot trust.
So let us now rejoice, in our sad way,
that we know nothing but that while we live
we fuck up fuck up fail to see and then
fuck up fuck up and fail to see again.