Forget Nijinsky’s feet,
Achilles’ armor, Rembrandt’s
white paling, Goya’s blacks
sublime, potatoes’ profundity,
stones’ profligacy, phonetics
of birdcalls and so on, and so on.
Never mind truth or accuracy,
as if a latter day sooth sayer.
Existence the only irrefutable truth,
and even it may well be a tautology.
We and the world are distinct entities,
with the world, most often over there
someplace, perennially unfolding
like us, wishes to the contrary,
without beginning, without end,
always without end and so on, and so on,
until unless bored or breathless we expire,
notwithstanding Nijinsky’s feet and so on.