Mysteries

I was strolling along
the edge of a giant field
thinking my brain is a lost boat
floating in a vat of dark water,
darker than the blackest bean soup.
Millions of roots crawl out
of my brain's bottom
to attach to the skull walls.
If I could open my head
I would like for you to join me.
We could pitch pennies
against the skull wall
where my brain is now
an old barn filled
with moldy hay
that would catch fire
if my head nears a flame.
Mysteries are hollow
and are only mysteries because
we don't look squarely at them.
I should treat each unknown
like a single green pea
alone on a tin plate,
not the mush of a melon
or the twinning of roots.