The problem is

the analytical mind sees the world
as an elaborate puzzle, a matted complexity
held together by milky glue on the wall
of some blue-eyed genius, his hands
soft as clouds. Continental drift drove
the birds’ beaks through the shells,
each broken piece falling like bones
into the palms of his scrutiny.
The shoulder connects to the arm,
the skull connects to the neck.
The moon in orbit wound the keys
in their backs, clicks racking up
like tumblers falling into place
in a combination safe, its door
as heavy as the night sky
with no promise of light.
When the first man
took his first breath, he wondered
where it came from, wondered
what made his heart beat,
wondered what made the ground speak
like thunder behind his ears as he slept.
He wondered, and he saw his face in the moon.
He waited for his brothers to die
so he could invent the autopsy.