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.
