Our Pull Toward Distraction
Leaping up out of a jar in an arc before falling to the floor,
the fountain-like chain of beads has puzzled millions with
its apparently gravity-defying behavior.
The fountain of chain arches
from what’s left in the beaker
against gravity. To say this is
beauty assigns value to our conflicts
as if a leaf will turn red by choice
(when it falls)
neglects its grim maturity.
It attracts the eye that follows it
down, haphazard, because
it is symmetrically linked
in a nonlinear way. We seek
the river, but I am out of my depth
and onto the banks. The fountain
is not an illusion and Occam’s
razor cuts to the chase. We desire
the source to be infinite, such is
our pull toward distraction.
Aesthetics of flux makes the heart
tremble enough to remind me
I am alive. The flow conjures
eternity without remembering pain.
For that I require another incarnation.