Hocus Pocus
And Magus says to himself –
‘This notion makes sense,
if you see my Excel as a fence
where each box is boxed itself
in an infinite sequence’ -
closed, bounded, nested.
And on the seventh day, did he rest?
No. Where each cell is a law
onto itself, and each tick scores
the paper just so, or is drawn
using a suitable software –
and here, thinks he, is a loose term -
for there is nothing soft
in hours spent and time lost,
where life is but a ticking clock,
a countdown, a screensaver.
Roll on, write more, press send,
here’s yours – efficacy as upload,
filling, filing, hitting ticks,
in praise of illiterate literal script –
‘Ancient parchments, what of them?’
thinks he, ‘My decree, my theorem
this my poetry, so mote it be,’
And did he smile his work to see,
where all are slave and master both,
don themselves in borrowed cloaks,
receive, complete, resend, repeat,
in ever-afters infinite?
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