Random, in tandem with conscious intent,
produces our usefulness to time. I've spent
hours on ours, like time after time,
rehearsing verse. Right now, it's raining rhyme
and rhythm. No schism, or terse interjection
can dissolve the knot once we've got a connection
to things, such as strings, and to the ties that bind them
to thoughts that we ought to know just how to find hymns,
well, struck as if plucked by the finger of God,
or heard in the words of the weird and the odd.
No odder than fodder and feed for the flock,
I opine for hoping hearts open. Knock. Knock.
