Synchronicity

My razorblade mobius strip circles
Around and around, rotating forward
Until it becomes the backwards babel
That cuts meaning into pieces—obscured.
The corresponding coincidences
Cause me to question probability.
How many improbable instances
Have come to define what is real to me?
What is truth when it chops itself to bits—
Slip, splitting open, pieces pried apart?
Does objective fact defy sense and wit
To rely more succinctly on the heart?
It's serendipitous forces, I'm sure
That decide our instinctual nature.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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