Wednesday, November 4, 2020

Still Nothing up the Sleeves

Doesn’t anyone else find the vaunted
Elaborations of the multiverse—
In which all probabilities occur

And what seems to go is only hidden,
And time remains a fiction, this cosmos
Of infinite retention—annoying,

A physics of chronophobia seized
By metaphysics of constipation?
Oh, the maths are too pretty to sully

With the earthy stench of night soil’s decay,
And wouldn’t it be lovely, a theory
Of everything, nothing rushing away?

If you can’t produce what vanished, intact,
In multi-form glory, like seraphim,
Wings beating forever, every which way,

Then, while I’m impressed with how well quantum
Experiments behave, I won’t yet buy
That what’s behind the black curtain was saved.

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