To think, to know that this precise angle of light, this hue of

sunset dripped all over the marina, and this turn in the convo

were all caused, to a microscopic t, to the slightest twist of

All paths turn curves and lead in straight astray plot, by the Big

and branching to the mechanical garden Bang, completely and

where photon cogwheels tinkle down a ray without remainder;

merrygreen as chlorophyll molecules harden that this includes

where Ben Joe John Alexei Stephen Katia all internal sensation

and I throw a recurring poetry party and experience. The will is

where in the garden library the teas unwilled; it is self-coercive.

are spiked a tooth so you feel more at ease I am not at liberty,

but if you peer into the deepest wellspring I am not at liberty to

you reach realization past all helping change my will, I am to it

into the nature of the mystery seemingly a voluntary prisoner,

where myriad particles just bounce around since a free choice is

along the great pipeline of destiny in fact a compelling absence

where no foothold of freewill will be found. of it. “The illusion of

what the English call the free will,” as the Indian prophet put it.

And since I’ve freely willed to own no assets, there’s no leaving

a will in the other sense, save for the small comforts of a poem.