is compelled
to move at the speed of itself,
to fill
to the limit
every room, every instance
with de rigueur vitality
before perception
can catch up;
whereas tight
gray-green leaves
at the ends
of hapless branches
are bayonetted
into being
per the strictest regulations
of the chlorophyll metabolism;
whereas even random
chance itself has
got to be created
on the back
of the beck-and-call dime
of compulsion:
so everything, it seems,
is made—
not just
caused—to happen.
"In god we trust"
because
we must.
