And since there isn’t any time
past the illusion of it which proceeds
from those intransigently skewed
conditions which insist configurations
of whatever constitutes electrons
and their inexplicably dark contexts
must disperse out in an infinite
and quickening entropic spread
as fleet discrete ‘events’ from some
just fathomable big bang cosmic burp,
it’s easy to imagine you’re the lone
foregone equivalent in some unknown
dimension of a muddled and befuddled
one-eyed Wyatt Earp, parched
and gasping in a blood-red desert,
fantasizing what imbibable quintessence
there might ever once have been,
or might yet be, a man could slurp.
.
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