For instance, the transcendent numbers
π and e, how they never resolve or repeat, how
they never tuck into pattern’s mindless rigor.

For instance, a raised bed as wide around
as a well, planted by a woman of flawless
whims. To many patternless things there is

something of that divine caprice. It cannot
be learned. Once I tried to be as fickle as luck
threading a string with seed beads.

From the hundred colors in the store, I took
a pinch of each. I shook the bag and dipped
the needle, jabbing a few grains at a time

from the shifty brightness at the bottom
of the sack. But with their sequence
I meddled. I have always meddled.