Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Chaos Terrain

The moth in the airport. Sarah
Saw a small, brown moth. This was years
Ago before the just gone now,
Salt Lake City, two-thousand eight.

Interrupted from time to time
By the faint, hallucinating
Mathematician's objections,
Even a poet may eat lunch,

Even a philosopher may
Be correct twice a day, even
A cosmologist may step back
From an untestable vision

Elegant, unforgivable
As the impossible serpent
Who speaks and has not lost his legs
To the story creating them.

We're almost to Jupiter's moons,
Speaking of mythology, we're
Almost to where a brown moth, lost
Might not have to mean anything.

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