Certain

Lines through four dimensions
Inevitably scrape the word from silence,

A history is born. A culture is contrived,
Pregnant with the blood of lost heroes,

And language breaks against language.
All roots are cleaved.

An architect is needed for any geography—

To tell us again that all men are mortal,
Mothers won't be satisfied, that logic will fail.

Tell us again about bills, snow, taxes, and laundry;
That furious sunlight will melt the earth;

That one creates, but two creates perspective,
That night is just a larger shadow;

Give us sea level at the equator again,
That love will wax and wane,

Candles will expire, skepticism will be dogma,
And there will still be cheap beer and cigarettes.