a short poem

Arc Minora

As certain as things get, say who are wise.
Note: both sides of the mouth are talking here,
And mumbling—can you make it out at all?
Greek—none. Less Hebrew. Latin pretty small.
Recall the temptress, though, soft at your ear,
Assuring that what counts is scale, not size.
My sun unwinds, etching the western sea
Smaragdine almost. Sort of. Not at all.
Mnemonic thread my mistress gave to me,
A snaky toy to tantalize a cat
Receding just beyond where her paw’s at.
Go, serpent. O, we absolve boas for free,
And trace the tangle back into a ball.
No doubt the lamb prefers the lion tamed;
A rhyme that scans—a Tao that can be named—