A Similar Universe

Another autumn proceeds—
Is this Liu Xiao’s persimmon
Or the maple of Clive James?
Life plays coy with timing things.

Every organism cloaks
A similar universe,
A molecular hocus-
Pocus for astrologers.

Living defies unfolding,
Preferring to keep itself
Guessing, meaning surviving,
Both sweeping and scattering.

All your future fantasies
Spread out fond parts of your past.
Ah, if only you could live
All the heaped-up hours at once.

Poetry, too, has always
Stayed provably neither/nor—
Neither disprovable nor
Provable. Who could prove this?