The young lovers plan their life together
with an algorithm of the heart
running on calendar pages not yet printed.
The stodgy professor solves the Collatz
conjecture,
looks at the chalk ciphers on his
blackboard,
and wonders whether the elegance of his
proof
will be understood by a world twisted into
pretzel logic.
Our silver moonchild inches from the Earth
at the rate of one foot per year.
In a billion years, will it careen
through interstellar space, the big blue marble
having to weather the empty nest?
Will the flowers in my garden bloom
or remain unpublished because of the need
for further editorial comment by a rake?
Will carousels around the world die from
entropy
or speed up and become blurry time machines,
hurling children into the twenty-fifth
century?
Perhaps the young lovers will ride a carousel,
stare at the rebellious
moon,
and solve all variables in the equation of love.
Perhaps the evening blossoms into a
psychedelic flower,
unfolding in unpredictable ways.
There was a time when my third eye
could predict the coming of days,
but age is a cataract that folds my brain
into haze.
I take three steps and get a little older
before I sleep,
before I watch the prophetic newsreel of my
dreams.
Its headlines will surely tell me how everything goes down
beyond the horizon and all temporal seams.
~William Hammett
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