in the combustion process
known as loss.
As probabilities exist
as distributions
prior to measurement,
so too are we kinds
of palimpsests—
superimpositions
of selves.
Then, from the smoke and dross
which surrounds each
burning manuscript
booms the thunderous sound
of many rooms collapsing—
of pluralities
ruthlessly
getting paired down.
*
Our eyes narrow
at the answer
to another computation,
and discretion stands-in
for the better part of valor—
not because it's better, but
because it can be measured.
*
This life, then,
is a pinprick
at the center
of a cloud;
is the pupil
of a rheumy eye;
is a wave
in the sky
which has been
slowed down.
Isn't that
too dreamy?
