I owe my life to a series of accidents.
A faucet was dripping in the next room.
No doubt something flashed amid the outer planets
and swampy Mr. Frog went leap instead of boom.
Mother recalls that some ducks were splashing
in a river nearby called the Monocacy.
The scribes at that time were keen on establishing
an intellectual bureaucracy
with attempts to square us up in terms of theory.
Of the cantors’ dozen modes some were gladdening,
while others among them made me weary –
though liveried accidentals might uplift me.
I smile and I nap. Between smiling and napping
I’ve taken, over the years, to mapping
the chance coordinates of my nativity!
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