Because spirit must change but cannot split. Look,
He was overly in love with symmetrical speculation,
But it was a legitimate effort at a distinction,
A first step toward the end of the line in division.
Examine any remainder closely enough and you will
Find further change within it, and yet something
There is, some aspect that has not changed, although
It has change continuing within every infinitesimal,
However you have defined it. Temporal types
Of changes are particularly rhythmic, but that
Only goes to point to another trait, that the ways
Change changes can never be completely split.
Might as well posit ch’i or divinity or spirit, any
Cosmological constant if you can’t get further
Down the line than that. Every aspect of the cosmos
Is nonidentical to itself, however you define it,
Contains both active difference and enduring sameness
At all points within it. So what do you make of this?
This little lake, a reservoir hardly more than a puddle,
Even brim-full at the end of a wet winter in the high desert,
Is not in any respect static nor ever, in passing,
Not at all the same. The three men in an old rowboat
With a grunting outboard go up and down the lake.
A yellow dog belonging to one of them runs
Up and down the shore in parallel, tongue lolling.
Waterfowl rise, descend, and paddle along the margins.
The rowboat’s outboard has a rhythm. So does
The dog’s gallop and panting. You can time them.
There’s not a drop of water pooling here that isn’t a world
Of animalcules, infusoria, molecules, and atoms,
And if you could isolate any one of them you’d find
More of the same inside, winking at you, however
You spent and measured your time. You might even find
Old Shao and his harmonious ch’i or your own
Notions of ghosts and angels staring back at you,
Minuscule ideas at cosplay in the changing rooms
Of your slowly churning, monomictic imagination.
The men don’t catch a single fish. They decide
To pack it in, but the yellow dog never gives up on them.
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