Photo by Fattal Photography on Adobe Stock
So Far
We're on our last legs, and the legs are last to go;
the best metaphors die young, reborn as cliches.
We live the wrong ideas of chaos and order;
they're not villain and hero, but mother and father:
alone, each as dead as the other; nothing laid,
nothing made. If I waited until my so-called work
was done, I'd never finish a thought,
let alone a poem.
O, Mandelbrot, o, Mandelbrot, the measure
of a coast is not what it seems, each inlet
spawning its miniature, every towered turtle
a fractal made of fractals. We are the broccoli
and salmon we eat and which will us consume.
So far, what looks like waste is all that sustains