We are a tuning fork let
Tingle, spewing off in crests
Of interference,
Concentric circles met
Mingle, in rippled patterns; lest

We sink our pebble cupped hands,
Tiny polished eggs spackled
With inference,
And us, but mere cosmic sand
And gravity’s weak shackle

My wrist to beddings iron frame,
As the evening chirps quiet; chisel
Through indifference,
My marble block, blown by flame
Reduced to dust and grainy gristle