Difficulties arrive in waves,
lending weight to the theory of threes,
the plunging fund, a failed engagement, the self’s
doubt, all combined to inflict the particular
misery of the ongoing, the continued, inelegant fate
that declares us human. Look,
she says, the hummingbird flits from leaf to
flower, its wings beating 58 times a second,
a fact not to be trifled with, for what may we duplicate,
contemplate, even, at that pace?
Say the hedge gets clipped, the ring whirs off the finger
and back to the jeweler, and all you know for certain
is that you don’t know. There is no why, no how. No
way. Or life’s reel unwinds and plays only in
reverse. Where do you stop and splice it, forming new,
uncharted worries? And what about that damned
bird, buzzing around your head in territorial fury? Yes,
yes, I know. These things are not my concern. Not really.
But they arrive in unending repetition, one after
the other, in clumps of three – lovely, lonely,
triple-threaded lines of vicissitude lapping at our ankles,
saying nothing, saying everything, saying it used to be so easy.
Originally published in Eclectica in July 2014.