Throwing dice, playing cards
mix chance and calculation.
Like my life.
When reason prevails
tact and order abound
but wound up like a tight spring
is the hand of God ready to act.
Many a slip between knife and lip.
Up against chance in the experiment.
Chance is the enemy of the statistician,
which he will attempt to eliminate
with clinical repetition.
Scientists fudge the equation,
deny the integer’s intact creation.
One, two, three, death,
take a breath — is my number up?
They blame the heat
say there was a fly in the ointment
a flaw in the instrument.
Chance is objective
it stands cocky behind my shoulder,
no accident ready to pounce,
something logically to be regretted.
I’ll take a chance
bright hot with a gambler’s silver power,
notch into existence’s counting rhythm.
Make chance the oracle, the centre.