A bit of swirling’s all I’m leaving, a pattern
In the pattern, a tiny vortex in the dust,
And that was all I have been, all I am. Pixie dust,
If you like, that became imbued with consciousness,
A slight distortion in the braided, preexisting
Currents and channels of waves, of airs,
An alteration debatably distinctive to the way
Things were already changing and being
Said or written, that’s me. The physical
Manifestation of an unfortunate existence
(Not especially unfortunate, mind you, only
Humanly so, typically so) can be traced
As these scattered handfuls of flipped bits,
A twist of echo here, and there a mark
On a surviving paper page, tossed in a box somewhere.
This can all be disposed of. This can all be
Erased, but it’s a race, the finish of which
I’ll never see, as to which vanishes completely
First, these tiny forensic clues that someone toyed
With this language, or these circumstances
That produced my lust for endless composition,
This joy in rearranging, this pulse that bursts.
No comments:
Post a Comment