History does not repeat itself, 
instead it reemphasizes its points

Even if dust be reassembled,
remolded to beget the people and
the rooms where laughter once pealed,
it would not be long before they'd again crumble

Release the voices stuck in the corners where 
walls meet ceilings,
   stairways meet rooftops,
lovers eye stars that die eons ago, like them just
moments ago, 
   all of time is yet here,
      behind our closed eyes

Once upon that time, the wind entered me, danced upon
my vocal cords, vibrations of me in the airstream, 
I emanated sounds like those of creation, to pulse 
magically, ametrically, sympathetically with all the created

The uncertainty of whether I am the core or the outskirt,
   the beginning or the end,
      the reveler or the laughter,
         the ceiling or the sky,

            the edge of the dome or heaven,
               the earth or the mycorrhizae,
                  the magma or the igneous mantle,
merely me again at the core

If entropy be the gradual decline into disorder, perhaps
the dead can once again live, for death, as I see it now,
is the more orderly state of our being

To be or not to be, was never the question, 
rather to love or not

cc: Chagall 2022