Our poem remains in doubt, a thing
From a state of chaos, a confusion
From John Keats' negative capability
A premature death to stay in doubt.

Doubts are hopes, skips and jumps 
Over gaps of thought, feet stretching 
Over stones of words, lightly visible.
Around them is mush that hides frogs
Potential for swallowing by snakes. 

Green frogs are waiting to be eaten
As they jump into water muddying it
To a  ripple of unresolved questions.
We live with just a snake possibility
Making peace with muddy ambiguity.

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