Classic Poem

As to Chaos — and also
to the riddle of Time — clouds
are instructive: Ourselves
evidently in synchrony
with someting in them, as they crumble
and fray (from a horse in a capriole
to a swan's wing), we stare at
but can't quite detect
the process, say when
the horse vanishes,
the tossed mane and tail
become wing, then emptiness. Here's
the tempo at which boys bulge
into men, or men wizen, or History
sinks into sand. We can't
intervene here, it seems, our very
intervention its furtherance. What
of the self, then? Does this change?
No. I am ready to swear
I have watched over fifty years
with the same sweet insouciance
white clouds and time flying. . . . But
no matter. I'm willing to admit:
in a perfect Chaos, all things,
even constancy, love, grace
must occur — so illimitable
would be the Indifference.