Truckled to the heavens
Atlas could do little
But brood
On the sisyphean futility
Of his task.
An atom
Hidden in the tail
Of a fractal
Cannot see the form
It helps shape
So in time
It becomes a thing
Turned on itself.
And with each turn
Atlas bent
Until he was as
Crooked as a sixpense
As stooped as a dowager
As prostrate as a slave.
And when he could bend
No more
He was ground
Into rock flour
The stars on his shoulders
Falling into the sea
Five fingered starfish
That scuttled across
The ocean floor
Until they found
Their land legs.

A thing turned on itself
Cannot see
The pixelated shape
It forms
Atom by atom
Cannot see
Its purpose
And even if that purpose
Seems otiose.
It counts.