Anne-Marie Thompson



A Cabbage White flapping its wings may cause
tsunamis, blooming flowers, flakes of snow
out here, where chance instead of order draws
the final, fractal line of Mandelbrot,

so standing at this boundary of beach
and sea, you see the snowflake pattern bloom,
hear distant mermaid-singing, "Each to each,"
each grain—of sound, of sand—an equal womb,

until you find you’re swept away, like dust
or like a castle you forgot to ground
on solid rock, one-of-a-trillion tanned
and bleach-blond kernels caught up in a gust
of insect-fluttered wind, dropped, never found,
another story written in the sand.