by Christine Adams Beckett
Twain very neatly made one
In seventy-five years:
A perfectly formed, egg-shaped arc
Around the earth, riding the tail of
A comet, which Halley himself was only
Fortunate enough to see once.
Shakespeare spun fifty-two orbits
Neatly closed and added to the collective
Sprial, the nautilus, the helix
A continuum of existence, time,
Place, whirling through an infinite
Unnerving hole of incomprehension.
“Let every man be master of his time,”
Strive to contribute to the dervish,
A Turkish dance of joy, a work
In color, pencil lines, gooey ink,
Pointillist dots, clay, gardens,
Genetic sequences and fuel
Burning a collective intelligence.
On Walden Pond, two of the forty-two
Arcs of a unlikable tax-evader,
An Aristotilian law unto himself who
Revealed the non-denominational
Grace that is Nature, more
Musketaquid than Concord.
Time and distance, reconciled
By Einstein’s own cosmic circles
Where constant motion feels like sitting still;
From a distance, velocity measured,
Observed, is incomprehensibly fast