Ourselves, We Do Not Owe
(Or, On Expectation Wielded)
Like a prophesy recursive, the present condition will frame future chance
with a dependence most sensitive upon the initial, same, unknowns
So my projected, misinterpreted, sometime wrong exquisite dance
may be damning me as surely as were I Dylan's Mr. Jones --
--- at least didn't know. Or did he? The heart confident & loyal
may all-too-human be, perverse, perfection find in such;
but: he damns himself who thinks it curst, yet watches water boil --
for watching changes nothing --- if, in fact, you watch.
& Watch I did, & watch I have, for days it seemed I stared
Alone, in twos, in crowds, indeed — within, without, withal —
Never found a present perfect I could prove for certain shared
But always found my means of observation at the center of it all.
Character is Fate, born of the quotidian, perforce;
To True My Self I conjure my True Will anew: O Fate! Show me thy force.
"...Fate show thy force
Ourselves we do not owe
What is decreed will be
& be this so..."
William Shakespeare
Twelfth Night, or, What You Will
