What if all the choices that shape our lives
are poetry, as are all the words we have at hand?
Wouldn't that mean the social sciences were like sieves
and people the water that they try to understand?
We have a card for each thing we uncover,
but so often we are using the exact same card
for different things; and while this makes it hard
for us to make good sense to one another,
we do okay, and most of what we say
means little more than the clothes we choose to wear:
that man in the leather jacket still has his say,
that woman in plaid still gets to buy her pear.
Do words spring from the earth and obey the stars,
or are they in fact the flowers, and we are the vase?
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