—pieced from Does God Play Dice? by Ian Stewart–
THE CHAOTIC LIQUID
Imagine a vertical slice of water.
Warm up the bottom. Keep it warm.
Watch it honeycomb. Watch it swirl.
One simple thing remains constant:
the dripping of a tap.–
THE PRISTINE EARTH
We are not witnessing nature, elusive,
a capricious creature. The solar wind
gives birth to a rich mixture of spices
and strangely shaped fruits. We are
the distant uncertainty. Painfully slow,
a roar can be heard eight kilometres away.–
Hyperion is tumbling, accumulating wobbles,
a bottle in a cosmic ocean. Sit still.
I hear the leaking rain drop against a basin.
I hear the irregularities of the heartbeat.
Sit still. Snakes and bears can be detected
only by their shivering.–
We are living in a world of four dimensions,
all curled up, a terrified armadillo. Stretch.
Stretch and fold. Imagine the Earth, a doughnut,
American-style, with a hole. Imagine the Earth,
a celestial potato, blind faith. Imagine God,
The Theory of Everything. Newton was a man,
a passing fad, a coin landing on an edge. Time
is the clock not made of clockwork.–
EARTH’S ULTIMATE FATE AS A STAR
A gigantic rocket, a tiny triumph of engineering,
waits in readiness. It’s too late to go back.
It’s a cosmic delusion. The countdown reaches
its final seconds. I do wonder what the aliens
will make of it: in particular, the photograph
of Jane Goodall and her chimpanzees
might lead to misconceptions.
Previously published in The Hangman’s Lime.
Rob MacDonald lives in Boston and is the editor of Sixth Finch. His poems can be found in Octopus, notnostrums, esque, H_NGM_N and other journals. Rob’s “Tron” and “Coach” are also in Reprint.
Object(s) to bring back to life: “I’d like to see someone re-animate The Dot and the Line.”