An infinite number of links, each distinct
From what immediately preceded it by
The least possible degree of difference,
What was once imagined as an unbroken
Chain reaching upward, literally, qualitatively
From dirt to heavenly divinity, what has since
Been reimagined as sinking down by layers
In the ground, or handed down generations
From deep time all the way to this moment
And us, is only living’s thread in the actual
Chain of being, not being, chain of change,
Nothing to nothing much, then back again.
What was sometimes thought of as a line,
Whatever the dimension it was traversing,
Was part of the fabric, same as the cosmos,
Every least aspect of it slightly different,
Every least aspect keeping similar remains.
That dualism is the monism, the real frame
Of the game, the embodied texture of ideas,
Nameless, unnameable source of the name.
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