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.