An Ode to What I Don't Know

My admitted ignorance is an epic sweep of dustbins
aeons old. My vast dearth could easy empty
the quiet Widener,
the stuffy Bodleian, even the ancient Alexandrian.
A live oak from a sycamore to a blooming chokecherry tree
seem queer,

unknowable as each bop personnel on Night in Tunisia.
I flounder in fusion in fission in subatomic quarks and cosmic spin,
even took me
longer than most to shake some odd inborn amnesia
that “intents and purposes” is proper and always has been.
Etymology

might as well be a subtle tracing of Tudor lineage
and can’t tell a googly from the wicket in a game of cricket
nor even
how the stat guys number up a slugging percentage.
Yet, infinite inaccessibility sans the doctor’s culture ticket
leaves me something to believe in.