Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Golconda (Magritte)


The rain of men is no accident,
Nor this particular universe.
In another there are schools
Of big blondes made of cement,
Each clutching a scaly purse.
The multiverse has so few rules.
Consider the raincoat and bowler,
The antitheses of all things solar.
They multiply in certain states
Like nuclear missiles and hate.
Here they are blessedly frozen
In space, equidistant but fixed.
In another time or dimension,
They might drop like pick-up sticks.

In this world there are no tricks.
Only rain falls, sometimes bombs,
Or the odd, suicidal accountant.
Scientists insist the quantum mix
Is inconceivably random,
Cosmologically inconstant.
(Wait, just like that rain of men!)
J. S. Bach has not just walked
Into this room, whirling a grogger.
All who agree on reality say, "Amen."
The windows have all been caulked,
Whatever rains. Let science augur
Eleven dimensions and uncertainty,
I'll join these gents for a cup of tea.