Recursive

More neurons
in the brain

than stars 
in the Milky Way—

some structure,
however tentative—

and the fact 
of other forms 

doesn’t fail to
astound me

so much as 
it renders me

speechless,
the lawful world

incomprehensible,
the arbitrary world

consumed by lapses—
coffee and oranges

in an office lonely
as a picture occurs—

your hand on a book—
and in this body

more transactional
than animal

the day goes by—
quite by—