Michael Collins-III
Twice
1.
The great, domed brow of Darwin
Is our basilica now. Watson’s, Crick’s
And Leakey’s works have seen
To it. We’re left like cards in some super-slick
game—shuffled, cut, palmed, dealt—
Or picked from the pack by chance
And climate, by what Paris felt
In Helen’s city-breaking arms: the dance
Of possibilities–pure perfume
Of future days unquenchable
By death. And if dangers loom
Round every joy, if risk makes a fable
Of every platinum-plated certainty,
It means we’re still our foreparents’
Species: our famines, our plenty
Are turns of their story. Death relents
That much, letting language carry
Cultures far from their ends, far from tax
Codes and tilled fields: letting the root of all money,
All lies, and all good sex
Rig reality, and get our genes in the game;
Letting “I promise” evolve, and all the hyperbole
Of love, and 1000 struggles to teach dumb time
the name “God,” to knead, from time’s skin, eternity.
2.
Wound in the double helix,
the future comes so near
one could almost twirl it on a stick
if it did not so fill one with fear.
Out of its aperture, quick as a glance,
Come market crashes, earthquakes, frail
Viruses that wreck populations. Chance
competes with will and wins. And the hard sell
stalls: peoples descended from God, rebels
eager to cure history in some smokeroom,
find the future isn’t buying. The humble
dice in one’s hand then hold all of time,
all of heaven. And poor reason, spent
as a convict running from the dogs, suddenly
grasps the Mystery, the wild current
drowning overturned heavens. Many
prefer then to dry their hands, box
up ambition and tell the stars, “sorry”.
They let alarm clocks replace the sun, let the fox-
mind that knew so many things bury
wanderlust and doubt in comely
Conformity. Yet always some Darwin comes, game
for changes, for Galapogos rife with homely
revelations, for the same never to be the same.
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1.
The great, domed brow of Darwin
Is our basilica now. Watson’s, Crick’s
And Leakey’s works have seen
To it. We’re left like cards in some super-slick
game—shuffled, cut, palmed, dealt—
Or picked from the pack by chance
And climate, by what Paris felt
In Helen’s city-breaking arms: the dance
Of possibilities–pure perfume
Of future days unquenchable
By death. And if dangers loom
Round every joy, if risk makes a fable
Of every platinum-plated certainty,
It means we’re still our foreparents’
Species: our famines, our plenty
Are turns of their story. Death relents
That much, letting language carry
Cultures far from their ends, far from tax
Codes and tilled fields: letting the root of all money,
All lies, and all good sex
Rig reality, and get our genes in the game;
Letting “I promise” evolve, and all the hyperbole
Of love, and 1000 struggles to teach dumb time
the name “God,” to knead, from time’s skin, eternity.
2.
Wound in the double helix,
the future comes so near
one could almost twirl it on a stick
if it did not so fill one with fear.
Out of its aperture, quick as a glance,
Come market crashes, earthquakes, frail
Viruses that wreck populations. Chance
competes with will and wins. And the hard sell
stalls: peoples descended from God, rebels
eager to cure history in some smokeroom,
find the future isn’t buying. The humble
dice in one’s hand then hold all of time,
all of heaven. And poor reason, spent
as a convict running from the dogs, suddenly
grasps the Mystery, the wild current
drowning overturned heavens. Many
prefer then to dry their hands, box
up ambition and tell the stars, “sorry”.
They let alarm clocks replace the sun, let the fox-
mind that knew so many things bury
wanderlust and doubt in comely
Conformity. Yet always some Darwin comes, game
for changes, for Galapogos rife with homely
revelations, for the same never to be the same.
<