What could I write that wasn’t this?
What could I have written, guaranteed
To save my life? We sat around the table
After breakfast, debating the ecosystems
Of publishing in this blinkered world.
There had to be a small adjustment to truth
Just slight enough to make it rain.
By the time I actually began to write
For resources floating out there somewhere,
That morning rain had changed to snow
And the better composition ruled outside
The window. A lesson fell. Those flakes,
Whether or not they really were each unique
And we could tell, wrote a message on cars
And walls: nearly innumerable minor changes
Are the minuscule creators of real worlds.
Anything repetitive without a difference,
Anything, is a myth and a simulation.
But I kept writing anyway, kept faking
The winning background pattern, one eye
On the slowly filtering, world-transforming snow.
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