BEYOND BELIEF

Emergence 

consists 

of things 

plus their appearance—

whereas

realness 

is what persists in things 

without such 

interference.

*

If you wish 

to discern 

between science 

and fiction,

picture photons, 

sparticles, 

negative ions 

all crossing the Rubicon 

of chaos 

and darkness 

and never once 

pinging GPS 

for directions. 

*

The Satan 

of Milton 

today would be 

sad

to see this ragged 

culture 

feign its expertise 

on God.

WITNESS

From djinns 

in the attic, 

to the thick 

of quantum physics, 

it seems, over 

centuries, many 

have agreed: 

to be 

is only to be 

perceived; 

nothing is anything

until it has been seen. 

Perhaps this is why 

we speak at all 

to those we meet, 

taking turns 

talking terms in hushed 

tones on the streets. 

It's as if we 

must first be 

proven to exist 

in order 

to believe. 

RASION D'ÊTRE

All I've ever said 

out loud 

has been swept 

by the wind 

to the oceans

and drowned. But 

thickets of words 

like this persist—

and what's more, 

their elaborateness 

makes them good 

hiding spots.

With the fortunes 

marooned there, 

I find common ground;

I don't want to be found, 

yet I need to be 

sought. 

CONFESSIONAL

If at bottom,

I am made 

of microscopic gods—

of quantum crowds 

who stormed this 

Olympus, 

whose courage 

each day gives new birth

to my prowess 

and whose truth

is the grandeur of familial 

resemblance—

wherefore this need 

to equivocate,

to cling—

to come clean 

on an incommensurate swarm 

of behaviors—

to get (and stay) up close 

to the screen

and just scream? 

SYNCHRONICITY

A leaden landscape 

in concrete and snow—

though the chill 

doesn't seem to 

pain you anymore

so much as 

the cruelty of that 

humorless echo's

quick slapping 

off the low, skinny sky 

from your boot soles—

as if hastening 

to let you know 

that everything 

you say and do

has been said 

and done at least 

once before.

BOREAL

The tyranny of January 

isn't showy—

it oppresses 

from the corners;

from molding drafts 

and stress cracks, 

its invisible diatribe 

needles our necks 

with insipid 

pricks of unrest—

less like 

some mythical

ice-tipped arrows 

than a wearisome  

panhandler, 

begging for color, 

even from passing 

shadows. 

FILLER

Notice how we're 

more suspicious 

of nothingness 

than its opposite:

like those few 

blank pages at the end 

of a book, 

a spotless mind

is the rare exception, 

while prolix 

is common and brooks 

no correction; 

in sleep, we prefer 

the narrative 

of nightmares 

to the tomb 

of dreamless termination; 

and those awkward 

pauses in our deep

conversations

are thought to be 

wellsprings of hidden 

predilections 

in the same way

the vastness 

of interstellar space 

is gouged 

by the arrow 

of time's direction.