Three billion beats the heart-value pumps
a billion times the mind can jump
from curiosity to remorselessness.
What sort of machine is a person,
who plays pretend with courtyard friends,
who searches history for forgiveness?
What choice colors the threads of fate?
Why search for meaning when the way is straight?
Why make time for conversation?
Events have their own weight
the measure of night has no freight
with the questions of the sun.
If fate’s threads are as clear as nylon fishline
bloodied only near the hook
when the fishtail beats the air,
then time’s trick is to present the past
as the fishmouth’s gape
as the ice behind the fisheye’s stare.
A living line runs both from the past and to
each living choice sends its reasons through
to the depths of ocean to give action proof.
The child plays in the rain, quiet, exuberant,
watching water fill a bucket
knowing that mother will find a way to love.
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