Our tendency is to approach the question marks
that mushroom behind meaning
as we would a carhood yawning steam:
the toolbox that swings at our side
contains wrenches of deduction
and power-in-methapor that looks like a socket-set.
Problems are what we go in and fix.
But the meaning of life never was a question
until we decided that it might not have an answer;
and ever since we’ve tinkered
balanced on the knife blade of ultimate solution
(could a new tool fit this protuberance?
A chemical meet these and not those receptors?)
because we are busy-bodies.
We will become specialists in all that we lack.

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