Entropic Gospel

My mesmer, canton bristling in the courtyard
weathered graven rumors of past lives,
floral arrangements eliding, eclipsing, a phrase
superimposed on every long hour of breathing
of eating, a succotash of brisk colors clamoring
like the chequy flag of a minor noble house, parading
in the wintry garden, flowers souring, rusty bullets
the Dada hammer of a flintlock rebel, barrel splintered.
There is no audience, no congregation, no witness-
no seal but saints or angels and the subtle spin states
of electrons, plying their entropic gospel.

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