Poem #9


The world is made of string,
all held together, tangled, tripping
though resting on quantum foam
to make up quarks both strange
and charming enough to live
inside a nucleus, still mysterious
enough to question their existence
even when viewed in gamma ray vision,
eyes resting on the construction of Atoms
as they sup from water molecules,
dressed in a helix, mantled in DNA,
ready for war against viruses
of humanity that charade in skin cells
as the world clings to life in eggs
just as it has for billions of years,
over and over, its dynasty living
in the face of every child, the roots
of the redwood, the tail of a comet
as it whips by Saturn and disappears
into a Cat’s Eye that blinks; another
grain of sand falls into the hourglass
until all of life is observable at the bottom,
mingled together like so many pieces
of string, knotted; they may as well be one
strand looped around my finger, serving
reminder for some forgotten memory
that echoes in the skulls of everyone
before me, after me; by extension,
finite in infinity.


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