Schrödinger’s Cat

In two states at once, in a box
alive and dead —what am I,
Schrödinger’s cat?

Rutting for grub, nose to the ground,
I hear the high art of a sparrow’s sound
and catch sweet honeysuckle scents
that here and now I’ve found
in a mire of duplicity or worse—

so neurons spell
disparities in verse
and spill
from a split skull,
from hemispheres
like nuts in walnut shells
sometimes heaven
(they switch)
you can never
be sure which
will be which


by Jim Culleny

Schrödinger’s Cat: here




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