At Least One Cycle in the System

Faster, slower, more or less,
Energy keeps pouring in.
Matter can’t help but cycle

And organize in patterns
Of cycles, some of which turn—
Have turned at least on this rock—

To autocatalysis,
And honestly, put like that,
Life’s just a fancy pattern,

Inevitable maybe,
And elegant, rather nice.
If it hadn’t the habit

Of piling up on itself,
Cycles consuming cycles,
Seeking out other cycles,

Still spinning or already
Broken, to incorporate,
Life could be a galaxy,

An entertaining furnace,
A marvelous atmosphere,
Not the hunger that brings death.