Long Slow Distance

I’ve heard it said, by fellows
in tunics and scientist eggheads,
that we, meaning all things that aren’t
nothing, no things, are made up

of subatomic, quantum, finely-tuned
strings vibrating, as in a well-
translated koan, our unmeaning
brought over coherently.

If that’s true, then we, a metaphor
for four billion years of tuning turn
out to be this table, chair, air,
organ, skin, and also a melody

each, lines, drawn-in notes,
or instruments, timpani,
tuba, blowing beats
in a distinct symphony.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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