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Poem #9


The world is made of string, all held together, tangled, tripping though resting on quantum foam to make up quarks both strange and charming enough to live inside a nucleus, still mysterious enough to question their existence even when viewed in gamma ray vision, eyes resting on the construction of Atoms as they sup from water molecules, dressed in a helix, mantled in DNA, ready for war against viruses of humanity that charade in skin cells as the world clings to life in eggs just as it has for billions of years, over and over, its dynasty living in the face of every child, the roots of the redwood, the tail of a comet as it whips by Saturn and disappears into a Cat’s Eye that blinks; another grain of sand falls into the hourglass until all of life is observable at the bottom, mingled together like so many pieces of string, knotted; they may as well be one strand looped around my finger, serving reminder for some forgotten memory that echoes in the skulls of everyone before me, after me; by extension, finite in infinity.


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