Sierpiński

No wild boar nor piddly pocket
To escape the leaving of dew
Sticky sweet, some print
Of oil and sweat and yet nothing at all
To find or fixate
Wolfing around in holes
Foxing to feed
Bring something back
that is more than a track
Something hopping across on hoof
Or dragging through brush
Stuck with a twig or a branch
Ready to blanch
Each tiny little digit
Crawling toward a finite point
Some larger master
Breathing down on flock
with no apparent breath at all
But pressure
like that of cushion
Forced down
Not a swirling mess
To kick up dust
Just a silent friend
Reminding the course
to participants
Even those innocent little sprightly types
With heaven already in their eyes
Leaving steam
losing streaks
Almost all of what ever was
May have developed in the same way
Three quarters at a time
All that is fair
For something that came
From two elsewhere things
Being built and taken apart
in some equation
Where x equals
and y equals
Some formula to track progress
or a slipping off course
That tingling sensation
never knowing if it is growing
or being taken away
disintegrating at a rate
Befitting Sierpiński
or anything else
That might explain
Where things go
and why they came
--
11.23.09