Theory of Gravity: Or a poem for my own damned birthday

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.



22 thoughts on “Theory of Gravity: Or a poem for my own damned birthday”

  1. What a great fusion of the transcendent, the scientific, and the mundane. Here’s to more everyday moments of joy and discovery. Wishing you a fulfilling year ahead Rodger.

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