Every day the planet spins, I find myself
Returning to the thought that every turn
Takes a little bit longer, relative to other
Measures, than the last day, so that even
This smoothest, most reliable-seeming motion
Is slowly changing its rate of change. The top
On the wooden table, the Foucault pendulum
In the planetarium, every stable orbit, every
Stable attractor will wobble into chaos. So
Much is so similar but nothing is essentially
Unchanged. I like to know what I know
I’ll never be able to feel for myself. These words
That pretend to speak for me, as me, who
Speak for themselves and the languages
Beyond, before and aft of me, form a part
Of that knowledge. What I can feel, without
Them or through them, alike, is that I am
No longer watching the sun or the rain
But sitting with my furniture and my screens,
Beside the window black enough to mirror.
Soon enough, slowing spin notwithstanding,
Whether or not I sleep, more sun and rain.
No wonder some Sufis sought divinity in spins.
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