Fulcrum and lever, rudder and keel
dowsing rod, tuning fork, compass needle—
I kneel to true North. To the sweet spot
the real deal, the crux, the gist.
To dead aim
also miss. Praise
pendulum—both directions, tick
and tock, apogee and rock bottom, aphid and rose.
Just desserts. Thermostat, cruise control …
both baby clothes and winding sheet.
Rejoice with me for swell, whorl, eddy, the nautilus
here on my fingertip, walnut’s burl,
hurricane’s cowlick, for updraft, smoky fractal furl.
Celebrate orbit and standing wave.
All hail to tables: the water … the breakfast … the periodic …
Sync. Luck. The pink, the song of life—its beat, down
guffaw, bottomless yawn, ticklish sneeze
the little death.
Sing birthright; title, proof of purchase, deed, universal
product code—what they point to and what they don’t safeguard.
Matter, plus what matters.
I bow deep to solstice stone, marker
of the dawn that follows dark.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 4.
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