this poem cannot be proven

this poem cannot be proven

 

as a proof,

as if mapping the ocean floor

in verse sky maps

 

the moment facts come forward,

line outline

with blank center—

leaves turn yellow

as a consequence of breathing

 

in/vertical dilation—

time slows down

when measured

by a fast moving observer

 

a sentence can’t be both true

and false,

season

and somnolent,

latinate and hand

held

 

certainty undoes

itself, in bark patterns

elaborated

by bore beetles

 

event horizon

where time freezes,

hands fall

to our sides

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