Weed

I ask a thousand ways the same question
which is different at every approach,
veers away from how I come to state it,
makes a mockery of all I request

I go on faithful to intrigue I find
in what might be drudgery, now I see,
now I don't, myself slipping out of reach,
sloping quicksilver swift away from me

the question is what the question might be,
because all response supposes asking,
that frames the talk I'd have twixt me and me
about nature's nature, what that means for me

poet's a weed in garden of thinkers,
a plant native that is still immigrant