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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s