It's wondrous easy some days to guess What at last we are and what's happiness. Yet these inscrutable questions duly observe Both the face of the question and the hidden obverse. What do we know but that knit intuition Pearls the stitches of mere superstition When sacred instinct's emergent pattern comes Divulging phantoms of what we might become? There's no simple time in which to simply be; Time's a dark palimpsest of what we can see: Squaring the past with our parochial acre of here, Or inferring a fictional future from fanciful history. Flip, stitch, or analysis: we guess as we must, Surprise ourselves, and end as dust.