he’ll never know how close his brand new Prius (no plate yet) came to getting smashed in the parking lot when he suddenly pulled out without looking—we’ll never know whatever happened to that three year old I found in the street one night and returned to the guy (the mother’s boyfriend) in the empty house—I’ll never know what the 4 were talking about when we happened to see them together at their table and said hello, I’ll never know what she thought after all these years—we’ll never know what was up with the guy crashing his van head-on into every car parked on the street, one after the other with his face clenched in fury as she and I walked along hand-in-hand through the evening street—we may never know who it was stole the green Vietnamese ceramic pot and the fine blue agave I gave her as a gift from the driveway in the early hours of Saturday—may never know to summit those peaks free hand, may never know the dense mysteries standing one behind another throughout our lives—may never know what it is to cross that threshold, walk one end to the other—may never know how it is to save a life, a number of lives, and then do again—may never know if it is simple, the long life of the sugar pine—may never know how it goes, my quiet aging neighbor’s world—may never know how it is, my distant child’s life—nightfall across the world about us, hummingbirds returning to the empty feeder, buzzing around in the dusk, may never know it hardly at all (where do they go at night?)—which is not to say these mysteries are “unimaginable,” because they can be imagined, or “unbelievable,” because finally you do believe—or “indescribable,” just because the slackers won’t go that distance to describe them—just look there, where the hummingbirds used to be, in the dark, by the ragged edge of the cypress, parts of which are brown and dead

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