Monday, September 21, 2020

Falls Kill Summers, Still

Spira Mirabilis

Whirlpooled logarithms, patterns
Repeated in unexpected

Places—heavens, we’re all infants,
Shrieking startled and delighted

At seeing anything at all
Wasn’t what we were wired to see.

Just look at that nautilus shell.
Now look at that galaxy. See!

As if the whole cosmos weren’t set
Permanently on the cycle

Of almost repeat. Chip a bit,
Dissolve a piece, spin a little

Angle just slightly differently.
We’re audience participants

In a Big Top demonstration
Of how to sieve through every piece

Of piecemeal possibility,
Until it’s all gone, dust the hands,

Tug the cuffs, nothing up the sleeves,
Audience, too, eventually.


You’ve done enough.
Fine whenever it ends.
Fine if there’s more.

Meanwhile, muddle through.
Minimal planning and fret.
Minimal work and effort.

If it’s good, when it’s good,
Then it’s good. Enough.
You’ll be done before you know it.
In a Few Days, or Few Enough

From now on, that’s my motto: muddle through.
This tag of skin, this sack of bones, these views—
They’re so small and unimportant a dent
Dug for old roadkill could swallow them whole.

Let roots and fungi get a meal from them.
In a few days they’ll be hungry again.
Why should these word-haunted, word-taunted thoughts
Expend the best hours in imagining
Better or more dreadful futures for them?

Muddle through. Maximize the minimum.
Mumble and stumble and savor the end.


If games all end the same way,
What should we gain from good play?

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