Slants [for Emily D.]

Having said nothing all morning
Do we spread our hands on the table,
Palms down, the tea steaming between them,
Knowing no way to measure silence?

Truth has a certain downward slant
Slightly more like gray light falling
Through a December afternoon window
Than the path of a driven chisel.

Neither purposeful nor random,
It follows from antecedents,
The shape and lie of each against each;
As carbon molecules slip
And smear softly as graphite on paper,
Or stack to glint obdurate as diamond.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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Mumble back at me

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