In its ribald replication of infinite forms
is the Essential Question so polymorphously perverse
that unsated perverts like us must in our mad hunger
devour every item back to genesis,
catch every sound wave to decode its cry,
inhale every atom to absorb its secrets?
Or must we, like Sisyphus,
roll our experiences back to their peaks,
to repeat and repeat our cyclic search
tossed between galactic whirlwinds
in a universe's infinity of self-reflecting mirrors,
a closed circle of dominoes, endlessly falling and rising?
Or might some Eternal Trickster play cosmic hide-and-seek
and blindman's buff with the earth-inheriting-meek
granting glances to lovers and poets, children and fools,
who play in the crevasses between chaos and rules,
who let each sun be the sun and each rain be the rain,
who let the Trickster be trickster and laugh at his game?
December 20, 1990