Where is the universe?
God is not conscious;
The structure of reality is a fractal.
The gnarled burls in the unfurled fir,
Trunk twist maple – spalted, pustuled,
The orange-crusted lesions of the lichened plumb.
In the winter a frost forest on a skeletal tree;
In the summer a million river-veined branching planes;
A freezing, blooming, burning, dying Möbius symphony phoenix.
Up on the pier,
High atop green ribboned swells,
A crow’snested gull crows to emerald sea and all its pearls.
Watched by binoculars,
Business suit lunching
Through high-rise corner office glass walls meeting coldly.
Sandwich chunk choke,
Throat grasp, obstructed gasp…
Bye binoculars.
Shuffling funeral-goers in black hats;
Back-pats and murmurings of:
            Much too young;
            So, so tragic;
            And what of the family?
Two children grow, leave nest,
Go off, meet, domesticate, mate,
Descendants approaching infinity;
O, mythic Mortality,

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