Time droops like a melting Dali clock
dripping each daily second of time.
A clown, a stage, an empty theater.
Do I have a double? Am I in trouble?
Once I was. I am certain I was once
someone somewhere. A Pollack splash.
A still-life bowl of fruit. My ticket for
the future to be, or the future not to be.

Will I ever know? Or will the knowing also
pass away? If only a way to will the clock,
a will to pause and rewind, to figure out
Einstein's relativity, and wave-particle enigmas.

If I have a will, will I know if it's reliable?
Can I create reality with a will? Will a sip of hope
and a dose of faith reconcile quarks with antiquarks?
Is there enough time? Will Dali's clock run out?

I believe in a will. If I will, therefore I am, or was
at least. Am I ever myself or simply a probability?
The observed or the observer? Perhaps wills are
remnants of supernovas. Is Schrodinger's cat alive?

From my faith in a will, I could fill a black hole
with the clutter of will o' the wisp potentiality,
and start afresh, unless—Thy will be nada . . . .
Are you sure God doesn't play dice, Mr. Einstein?