strange attractor
The poem is the poem is not the poem today.
Laudator temporis acti, past and present converge on this hazy winter morning, this sole unremarkable hour, strange attractor saturated with coffee, news and all the little artifacts that mark this hour, this year, this place as identical to and different from any other. Laudator, mark the secular libations, the magic of electrons, waves without ether, revelation without prophets. This is the post-diluvian world, and it is full of the wonderful and terrible.
Let's eat. Let's have a coffee. Let's sit here together, you forgetting the past, I ignoring my poem – and together, we can dread the future. Look out, pauvre rameur, troubled twin, and see what's there. The end of the past, the end of libations, the end of all poems, waves and radiation, small dust.