Chaos I



Everything is lying between the lines.



The needle’s point, magnified, is round.



The coastline seems smooth, but the beach defines



roughness; infinity is wrapped around



inside, and then, again circling itself.



What I have seen of you so close, profound



in intimacy, is not what yourself



is far away. What seems so straight is curved.



The changes are at th’edges of myself



where you are lying duned, naked, reserved,



dreaming coiling within dreamt dreams awake.



So the turmoil seems smooth, the peace preserved.



Beauty is simplicity—but heartache



hides chaos—this emotional outbreak.



Chaos II



In Hunan, a butterfly’s wings flap once;



an imperceptible breath exhales off;



it blows into a breeze, an occurrence



of wind, and then great hurricanes spin off



in Atlantic waters devastating land



oblivious to a shining insect



flying from flowers. First, the reprimand



as well began with wings’ smallest affect.



Now stormy churns destroy all we built



along our beach, washing it all away.



Cyclones exhaust themselves around the guilt



that’s left over from a butterfly’s day.



Nothing’s the way it’s planned or hoped to last;



Love’s flight gives flight to chaos unsurpassed.



Chaos III



Famine worsens as worse things get when things



are bad; seven lean years stretch out to more.



There is never an end in sight. Downswings



do spiral down; the bottom is unsure.



I hunger deeper than Saharan drought.



You’re the moisture I want from cloudless skies.



You are the desert’s absence—not this doubt



of wet greenery that this sand implies.



How does this chaos end? Where is the rain?



The desert grows in light and in darkness.



The cusp of soil recedes each drying day;



there’s less to grow on. It won’t sustain



anything more than windy emptiness:



Then wandering will stop and I will stay.



Chaos IV



Now trial and error brings me nearer



to you than Euclid to a spiral cloud



light years away. Nothing is much clearer



than math; but love has reason disallowed.



No algorithm or formula describes



the formless singing shape of what we feel:



Careless collision makes melodic vibes



rotate within our own galactic wheel.



Numbers irrational—one, two—create



heaven’s music and motion in madness.



Yet, there must be an equation innate



within chaos to make some sense of us.



It must be: Each is one but both are two,



not two but one—oh well, I’ll try anew.

