was large,
perhaps I am
the empty set—
too alone
to contradict myself,
I contain
no elements.
*
A murmur
of action potential
conjures black ants
thrumming on a bone:
everything
neatly cancelling
any one thing
out.
*
What hammer
of purpose
could produce
such force, yet
be so careless?
What accident
made water wet
and fire burn?
And what blind man
could have machined
this world's turning?
Even randomness,
it seems, if only
once or twice,
will chance
to flap its wings—
will stumble
on a syntax.
