Patterns, tedious to the casual connoisseur in callow love of circuses,
Whose aunts and uncles–convalescent cynosures–apply the ligatures
That best the daily bread but adds nothing to the liquor but signatures
The appliqué, the seams and borders of mere circumstance,
And pomp of simple disingenuous serendipity; floral blooms of in between,
And on the other side; propinquities of wider yielding needs
In creeping things, rewards of sweat well past the age of puberty. Hollow reeds
Of adolescence are careless where they land ever corresponding with obscene
Displays of natural righteous rage to opportunities of eternity and propagation.
It is just so with common events as well those in military congregation:
Universal laws claim exclusive rights to the infinitive in  any conjugation
Of principles set down by God knows what subjunctive subjugation.
Witness, then, in every accident the circumlocution of the spheres
With what flowers, tadpoles, insects, and homilies revere.

One response to ““Patterns”

  1. Those accidents, those shocks in the octaves, those mathmatical cracks in the geometry of nature that summon fractals to the empires of creation and flesh out the merest corridors of life… they go unnoticed, even as the air we breath; the very patterns that sustain us, that clockwork of the spheres, tick-tocks… with us… without us…with us…without

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