Quick Note About The Think Source

American Poetry Review, The, Jul/Aug 2002 by Ruefle, Mary

My dreams are not worth a half-penny:

a battery cut in two, eighty orange roses,

an old boyfriend in a new car of the kind

he would never drive. Fortunately for us,

the universe is not that complicated:

eventually, words like torpor and muddle

came into being, and then torporous, muddled

accounts of the universe took over the populace,

many of whom died while it was snowing.

There is always someone willing to tell you

who they were, though it takes a little time

to find the professional, but much less than if

you had to do the reading yourself. If you are

planning on being born, you should know there was

a primordial abundance of helium, if something remains

in the same position for nine consecutive days

it is safe to assume it has passed, and that

oleanders really do grow along the Oxus,

which is a river. After that you are free to pursue

the violent activity of happiness. But for the universe,

after the first three minutes nothing of interest

occurred for 700,ooo years: it just went on cooling

and expanding, as it were asleep on a premium mattress,

until it felt cold enough to wake up and make stars.

The rest is almost history: volcanic holes, small

French paintings, one-eyed bats, a handwritten note

wedged between the doors of a church. And oh, one

more thing: when asked, if you say "I do not dance,"

the next day an infant is born without feet.