It is metaphysical mojo, an invisible
part and parcel of everything’s that’s ostensibly made.
It is everywhere and nowhere, enigmatic embryo
into a million puzzles within the brain.
April unwinds steady metrical feet of lilting showers,
but as far as owning the poem or becoming its author,
is not something that is yours or mine or ours.
Love is touched and untouched, palpable and yet glowing,
photons’ wave-particle ensemble on the highest stage and lowest.
these matters I confess a decided affinity,
for I love the mystery that only ends in sequel
that may or may not be written in Hadron script
Heisenberg’s traveling subatomic players.
I love the space-time continuum that surely had a prequel--
singularity, duality, and the complex syntax of trinity.
live inside my skin and bones, content to hammer a threepenny nail
into a wooden post to fix my place in the here and now,
to assure that I, a walk-on player at best, retain my destiny.
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