Of The Smallest Things

Entropy is infinitesimal, they say, turning on an axis
so minute, so arbitrarily close to zero that spontaneity,

though a given, is micro-measured. I stood there once,
teetered, withdrew a trembling foot (the imbroglio,

the nascent disclaimers), considered the chasm and
sat down to dinner. A fulcrum for each world, for

each the smooth click of vital powers gliding
beneath the lever, and the long fortified perimeters,

binocular distant, poised like a dynamited structure
for implosion to unmake the music of my spheres.

Diane Bradley

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