Friday, April 28, 2017

The Thinking Person's Body Farm

A shopworn shipworm rested,
A paperweight on my desk
With hardly any papers.
This animal barely eats.
All our thoughts are Russian dolls,
Which aren't really dolls at all.
Who cuddles with empty shells?

I am the uncaused causer
Of my own behavior, thought
The fossil, thought the shell, thought
Each bacterium eating
A path through the sulfur hell.
Just because every last thought's
Wrong won't mean we won't think them.

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