Pull the heavy curtains tight.
Leave only a razor of light
to slice the dust of the room in two.
Exhale a ghost of smoke into that slit.
Watch the turbulence
as it mimics the ancient storms of Jupiter.
Fluid dynamics
written in a grey, ephemeral cursive.
Look at the soap bubble
glistening in the sun.
The iridescent skin
is a map of a gas giant
held in a child’s wand.
Pour the cold cream
into the black heat of the morning cup.
Do not stir.
Watch the white plumes
billow and curl and dive
into the dark.
The same math
that stirs the coffee
drives the Great Red Spot
through the centuries.
It is in the river eddy
tripping over the stone.
It is in the wind
braiding itself behind the mountain peak.
The universe is a Strange Loop.
The patterns of the infinite
are hiding
in the mundane rituals
of a Tuesday afternoon.
We are surrounded
by the fingerprints of the void.
It is absurd.
It is beautiful.
It is all the same thing.
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