wearer of gravity’s ponderous necklace—
I find my sign in the zodiac,
under the moon’s dry-erase board
and its palimpsest of calendar dates
going all the way back to the time
the great mathematician leaped
out of his bath and ran naked
into the streets, struck
by the epiphany of his own
inherent buoyancy— And I wonder
what volumes of gold or silver
or ink I have displaced,
what weights and currencies
attach to every pull and turn
on the yoke or rudder. Hold
back your hand from the mill,
you grinding girls, wrote Antipater
of Thessalonica; sleep on—
for the river has coaxed the water
over the toothed wheel so it churns
like a team of oxen; and your labors,
though long, are somewhat eased.
In response to Via Negativa: Scrivener.