Theory of Gravity, poem for my own damned birthday
There’s as much mystery in a fork falling under the table as in how
I got to be here to drop it, how
a being wholly composed of
slowed down light could become so opaque.
I fetched the dropped fork but how
my fingers knew what they touched what
process of electricity in a cell, what
snap of spark across a synapse, which
long-necked neurons woke and thrilled while
others slept would be a bowed head
in a day long prayer where
every day is holy,
every moment epiphany.
Fork returned to fingers lifted in
the air, the food that fed the nerve,
the thoughtless thought that acted without
me to retrieve the fork. What
intention is or isn’t, how
Aristotle said the fork fell
because of love— how
sometimes I think he was right.