Credo

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We spit at heaven and the spit falls back

And hits us in our eyes, though gobs of it

Don’t blind us.  Calicos inside a sack

Will fight.  Philosophers, each like a twit,

Those struggling for the light and using claws

And teeth, succeed in simply tearing fur

From others, all proposing thoughts, because

Because, First Cause, etcetera.  They purr

    Montaigne’s tower

Inside their Montaigne towers when not in fights

Together.  Writing letters, e-mails, tomes

And essays they are off in flights

Of aphorisms, Wittgenstein-like gnomes.

  The spitting never helps us very much —

    Won’t help us walk to heaven with our crutch.

~ Phillip Whidden