Another horsefly on another afternoon
Got stuck in the corner of the windshield
Again. The temptation was to say, "the same
Spot as before," but no place identical
Existed, only another event and another,
An indefinite, if not infinite, recursion.
This was the fourth or fifth horsefly
On the fourth or fifth afternoon spent partly
Beside a meadow, a creek, or both at once
In the last few days alone, fortnight at most.
And always the driver's side corner
Of the windshield. That was the thing
About recursion and similarity: as an engine
Of endless differences, the way the world
Used for changing was weirdly formulaic.
Humans had staggered around this pattern
With formulas of their own, or of their own
Cultures,' which amounted to nearly
The same thing, since their cultures couldn't
Yet evolve independently of human beings.
Consider the art-math of fractals or the old
Saw that history doesn't repeat but rhymes.
Consider random number generators.
The world reached out toward infinities
Of differences by exhaustive near repetition,
As in languages and planetary systems,
As in the myriad spiral coils of DNA, as in
This stupid horsefly in this battered car
Parked in a humming world and containing
Also a broken compositor who could only
Day after day try to find some quiet interval
In which to watch a bit of the fabric
Of everything rolling off similar presses, and
To scrabble in a black box of reusable types
For another lined arrangement to impress.
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