Not Two: Poem

A glass of cold milk in my hand

Brought by some cold-storage truck

To the grocer by my house

Before that, milked from the udders

Of a cow whose child was

Snatched away

She made milk from feed grown on farms elsewhere

To make plush empty fields of soil

Whose crops drew in water, wind, and sun’s light

The sun itself an ignited ball of gas

A paltry few billion years old

The gas only among the first products

Of the Bang, the Big one

With a sip, relief from heat is felt

and

Knowledge of All is Known

mundane, boring

mere illusory concepts