The Metronome

I am terrified of what it means to be alive,  
terrified of the queasy absurdity of living, 
the spring-flower-hot-oil rhythm of life.  

Trilling along a relentless number-line, 
we step over our self-constructed cliffs.
I think mathematical relationships are proof

that God is real and that we discovered Him. 
Our good-bad heartbeats are caught between
the loose geometry of falling-dead leaves 

and a cruel metronome.