The Dancer Is Another Dance

At peak apparent chaos,

The disorder converges

To a universal form,

Write the mathematicians,

And why not? Cosmic habits

Include topological

Clues—one, push anything far

Enough away, it arrives

At something that smacks of home;

Two, there aren’t any curtains.

Prop up your latest tripod

In its stable LaGrange point,

And it won’t show you exits,

Only deeper distortions

Through bigger, further lenses,

Beyond which more and more smears

Of something continuing.

You come around. You never

End—the exquisite chaos-

Pushed-to-the-point-of-order

Paradox is no closed loop.

An oscillator, maybe.

The apparent opposites

In each only the sequence

That waves—it’s not the same yin

Simultaneously yang

But the next one, not the same

Order out of that chaos,

Not the same beginning found

In that end. It’s the next one,

And the next one—not the same

Next, not the same paradox,

Not the same self referenced.