Eleven

Eleven

To where this river leads
we’ll never surely know.

I’ve heard there is a heaven.
I want to believe, I suppose.

To know where this river goes
is like the number eleven.

We count it with no quid pro quo;
that it exists, we make no fuss.

We don’t even think to discuss
touching it, or knowing it’s so.

“Behold there is an eleven!”
Is not a faith to be exposed.

So why should we be so opposed
to propose that there’s an ocean

somewhere down where the river flows,
down where the river loses its name?

Drifting down the notion:
purposeless purpose, I trust.