Saturday, March 14, 2020


A cousin of the proton
Was chatting with me one day
About the time he traveled

As far north as he could go
On a Canadian road,
Only then to find himself

Entangled with a local
Doppelgänger. He explained
How embarrassing it was

When both of them were spotted
Performing a private dance
On opposite sides of town,

How inconvenient, how strange
It was when they fell in love.
He was a poor raconteur—

His story lacked fine detail,
Leapt over unexplained gaps,
And went on without ending,

But I loved it just for that.
The deal with stories is this—
The good ones are portable,

Encapsulate their conflicts,
Are whole—complete and compact.
Go ahead, try telling one

About how all things began,
Without lying, to your child.
The best ones least resemble

The world they mirror so well.
Physicists built a funhouse
To catch the fast and the vast,

But with every mirroring
The fetch comes back distorted,
Until one day it’s prancing

Snow blind outside Inuvik,
No idea how it got there
Or how to explain itself.

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