It is a century beyond the centuries,
ripening on its vine like a melon,
shuttling in and out of our first antiquities.
A brave analogist might see fit to dwell on
its likeness to such pendular things as
the yo-yo or the little white ball in ping pong.
It moves along a string of dated peas, brings us,
through visions of the mean and laudable,
back to the very brink that we think we’re upon.
A major, a minor third, two notes, now a chord…
This mote in its swelling is audible.
Here it comes…Why, it’s not a melon…it’s a gourd!
Upon its thickening hide the message is bored:
“Begin the song! Set the cadence awhirr!
We would like you to tell us about where we were!”
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