In Memory Of He 3

on July 18 to July 12, 1982 Standard Diary

by Elaine Tsiang

Last night a path in Borges' garden forked,

Were we elementary, we might have bargained, fought,

Avoided detection.

As we are, the many fingers of time bore as many arrows,

And were we to reflect them, upon which you reflected,

Our world would still not be unborn,

This branch not unsevered.

So what of this world?,

Beware those who slight Lagrange's sleight,

Money is made in the marrow of this finite life,

To ease our drift towards a greater common good.

For all things a mathematical rhyme,

Our weaving of rhymes, a Baysian rhyme.

In madness, fine methods.

Naught beyond the measure of a scientist's hunches,

Mere notches in memory. What wisdom

Cannot be coded!

Lest you pause in reverence,

The gamesman passes your last pawn.

Into Borges' garden we each were gated,

In the night, we crossed the garden

To find the magician vanished.

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