Disappointed, distressed lone cane return
All past. Two black crutches to lean on now.
The ten thousand things are conventions
For myriad phenomena approaching none.
The cosmos of the physicists a black flower
Blossoming with numbers, with the dark,
Doesn’t make a useful crutch, too pliant
On its mathematical stem, drooping, heavy
Headed universe of uncountable eyes.
Oh, you can count them. But never trust
The counting that comes so easily, mendicant,
Distressed lone cane, leaning garden gate.
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