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.