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Зимородок
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Год написания книги
2020
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In a blind rage
I splinter my heart into kindling,
Pour gasoline,
Set the whole mess aflame,
Watch as it burns to ashes.
But it keeps on beating,
It keeps on beating in the darkness.
There is nothing to do but sit.
Stare into the void.
Read the blanks on the empty page,
Over and over,
Till they form a pattern,
Till the repetition yields a meaning:
“Let there be darkness, for there is.”
There is darkness.
There is darkness.
There is darkness.
All there is, is darkness.
Until slowly, slowly
Contours form,
A faint outline emerges:
“Let there also be light.”
Realities
we create a thin veneer of simplicity and predictability
over terrifyingly unmanageable chaos
and call it reality.
Anastasya Shepherd
We call it reality
And consider the matter settled,
So we can turn our attention to
Making sandwiches for the school lunchbox,
Submitting the quarterly forecast report,
Walking the dog,
Writing the thank you note.
At least, that is how it is
For some of us,
Some of the time.
We collect data about it,
Quantify the uncertainty
Of our measurements,
Publish papers in academic journals.
We put ironic quotation marks
Around its edges,
Take selfies.
We blaze with anger about what it is,
Emblazon on our banners
What we want it to be.
We split into tribes, go to war,
Mangle and kill each other
Under the pretext
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