Poetry: Against Entropy

By John M. Ford

The worm dri­ves heli­cal­ly through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table inte­gral and good;
And sud­den­ly the crys­tal hits the floor.
Elec­trons find their paths in sub­tle ways,
A mass­less eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of oth­er days;
Per­haps you will not miss them. That ís the joke.
The uni­verse winds down. That ís how it ís made.
But mem­o­ry is every­thing to lose;
Although some of the col­ors have to fade,
Do not believe you’ll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by def­i­n­i­tion, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear wit­ness. Iter­ate.

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