Whatever is, is not.
Sure as the horse pulls the plough,
things wear out. We watch
the heat of things flow out as time
goes by. Buildings collapse, crumble away,
nothing remains but a brick.
Unborn children grow old and die, under
the shadow of the au pair,
perched on a window pane,
tattling and chewing carrots.
Nothing remains but a tale that is told.

Two men in a bar talked about the fall
One was Soren, the other Jean Paul.

Eventualities, linked, by Kronos and Kairos,
(linked,) two monkeys in a circus act.
(the brass belly-button of the page seeks to obscure
this tale, but it must be told, ‘cause sure as)
This also is called time,
this, the elegy of Rip van Winkle,
the headless horseman riding backwards.
The future is a guillotined Miss Easypiss,
flowing into the past.

That clumsy angler, man, head a can of grey
worms, swears a reversal of principles:
order is the serendipitous harvest of chaos sown -
stately houses, recycling projects, immortality gene.
(His name is Roger, he cures the mind.
He heats up his tea when it is cold.
"I do not like Digestives. I do.")

This also is time, chyme chiming
to the belly's rhythm.
The dialectics of multiversalism:
"the earth is a closed system, or else
a system of closures." The worlds are
bubbles in God's bath-tub, the Universe
a great ball of akara, saara
soaked in goat milk. Bubbles.