Poem: The Facts

The Facts

Is it what I know
or what I do not know
or something between those,
something I do know
but don't understand
or have left aside
and not considered
or forgotten about altogether,
a thought in the corner
left to rust or go feral
or become a shadow
or whatever it is
unconsidered ideas do
with their time.  I have answers
and I have questions
and sometimes I know
which go together,
but that can feel rare, 
and the vastness
of the rest, of the uncertainties
and the vagaries and the rest
that I can name or not name
or not even know about enough
to wonder if there is a name
or even a word to use
that would come close.
I don't think it is the same thing
as it was before, but it is, isn't it?
Or is that another assumption.
I am always assuming things,
even the doubts I have
about whatever it is
that I assumed to be my assumption,
even that is just something
I expect should be there.
It must be waiting for me, I think.
That has to be, 
or else nothing is certain,
but I say it with only doubts
for backing.