Ether is the either/or
that spins the sinuously sticky web
we weave decisions in. Its
filaments are light as air, vaguely
finger-playing in our memories. Either is
as dreaming does,
so many photographs developed
in a flash of time before
the need is even recognized.
Either is, as well, the residue
of scripted hopes, of what
just might in times to come be true.
Like warm clay, it takes its final shape
in the pulses of our warring
impulses, the clutch and pull and draw
of dervish-like desires.
Either is or isn’t, just as
those flowers on the balcony
wax or wane in circadian cycles,
sown in sunlight, rain, and time.
Either: like one’s name in invisible ink
reversed, and the joke’s on the other,
never on us.