Theorette of Relativity
‘How sour sweet music is,
When time is broke and no proportion kept!’
—Richard II, V.v.2791-92
I’d bet, in the tuck and cluster of follicles
at the nape. Owls are proportioned by a seething
static of feathers over another’s torn body.
Measure can only be assumed in what keeps
time. Roots clutching to gauge a growth,
new shoots spun of larchwood. And as for
the hiss and shoal of rain—can nothing keep
from running? Is there a small portion of lynx
still shored by the islanded thicket? Some cells,
I’ve heard, are not shed, all your life, from
the crystal behind your iris, if only to confirm
that your old house is somewhere beneath
the highrise. I, and the dusk, gather a last blade
of honey to be counted on my ribs. I’m dying
to prove just how much I’ve been alive.
Patrick James Errington is a writer and translator from the prairies of Alberta, Canada. A recent graduate of Columbia University’s MFA program, he is currently a doctoral candidate at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming from Cider Press Review, DIAGRAM, Antiphon, Punchnel’s, and others.