Ding, dong,
Bell's theorem;
a stop on the bus;
pussy's well-connected
paws hold fast
her grid
the narcotics in
dad's pipe
explode the baleful sun,
somehow,
now and then.
Could it be,
caught in the field,
tomorrow
is locked and bolted,
delivered ready-made today?
Unchanged, we strut out the door,
make our schemes while
Einstein's ghost
in patterns
comes and goes,
whispering chaos
triumphant;
tomorrow
come and gone,
like distant thunder.
Leave the gates open:
back and forth
across the field,
like an ox,
the shuttling flux
gives an answer.
No question:
if the mini-maxi bits
of the world
travel fast and alone,
zipping down
unpredestined grooves,
then the bible's right;
then
all is a watch in the night,
the night gang
watching for the
swing of chance
to show a way,
make a map to somewhere,
accurate as random waves
or the gods' good will.
The dance is dancing;
the spiders and horses
prancing
in great and small circles
leave not a trace;
only web and sweat
remain for the flies.
Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Typishly Literary Magazine, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies. The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He once owned a cat who could whistle “Sweet Adeline,” use a knife and fork and killed a postman.
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