Each afternoon for months now, the angle
Has moved from the south further west.
The straight west window almost frames
The last fire of sunset now. I squint at the blinds
Half drawn down one window, the texture
Of their fabric, the small details of the weave
Glowing at half past three. There’s a thing
About this universe I understand intuitively.
Whether or not I understand it correctly, it
Feels dead right to me: the texture whispers
Vastness, the literally unfathomable expanse
Of small and smaller movements embedded
In large and larger moments. It’s dizzying, yet
Also somehow boring. Sometimes I suspect,
When watching dust motes twirl slowly
Through indoor, sunlit air, what I’m studying is
The infinitely thick perimeter of an unassailable
Prison of existence. No, I don’t mean living,
Being aware of being—from those, there is
Inevitable escape. But from existing, being
Any sort of pattern of atoms and twisted
Gravitational shapes? What kind of cosmos
Spawns a creature capable of such considering,
A temporary creature can catch itself at it,
Perhaps compelled to consider its cosmos
A hoax? The houseplants turn so slowly, I only
Notice monthly how they have followed the sun.
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