There is a theory
that predicts the patterns
of leaves and radiolaria
and the angles of actinic light,
footprints and pebbles,
and all other things.
you know the theory.
it is written on every page,
it is the signature and the message.
every thing is a string of dissolving fears.
each is unique, uncaused, irreproducible.
each fades and appears again and again
in new forms,
new uncaused arrangements.
that is the samsara of objects.
know the udjet of time:
an endless tesseract
over every possibility,
all iterations unfolded,
all loops unrolled,
all knots untangled.
in all worlds
you hold the udjet,
and the message,
and the theory.
you hold them in the light,
you speak their names.
anyone can hear you:
your voice is the radio hush,
whispering between stations.
you tell them all, "i love you,"
everyone at once,
in every possible language.