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If fugitive fermentation could explain
The way things spread themselves, again
Upon the ocean of ubiquitous travel
As a single drop of oil, does unravel;
Rainbows seeping, in a circular fashion
Fumes far away the errant gasing station
From a single random spark's ignition, per force
The fire mows obliquely, toward the fuel source
Indomitably, as though possessed weight and strength
And address and destination, of which to speak.
While if the brain's more deliberate, synaptic threads
Were more evenly spaced, throughout the head
And could line up in tandem; an endless link
In that quickened chain, makes one able to think;
And if eyes should fasten on the first thing they see:
I could never be your intellectual property.
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