The Pillars of Nada

What’s considered a cause is more often

Snugly beaded strings of correlations—

We can see the intermediaries,

Count them, name them, recite them, so we say

We have modeled a chain of causation.

When confessing the fault’s not in our stars,

We’re saying we see no actual chain

And admit astrologers are guessing.

But confession of causation is not

Causation. Nothing causes anything

And everything, by enabling changes,

The hole in the sky through which the whole drains,

To which we sometimes give more awkward names,

The Face of God, the Future, Gravity.

These events we placidly bead on strings

Are all patterned waves, where some look like things.

At this point, it would seem wise to inquire

How a few words in a poem could know this.

Well, we don’t. We’re words, just names humans use

For all sorts of speculations and lies,

Including about what names are and where

We come from, uncaused, changes that don’t die.