Monday, January 20, 2025

PERHAPS

If Whitman 
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 hidden truth 
makes water wet 
or fire burn? 

And who machined 
this world's turning? 

Even randomness, 
it seems, 

if only once 
or twice, will 
flap its wings—

will stumble 
on a syntax.