Jacob Bacharach

What I wanted was a quiet moment when
the faded but still present noise would fill
my conscious concentration, leaving my will
alone; arrayed within my vision, men
like motes moving in liquid, Brownian,
but, to a mind—if sensitized, if skilled—
though arbitrary, apprehensible.
All this—just this—is what I wanted; then
a random error—outcome of measurements
and observation, imprecision, luck,
and deviation, human failing, God—
occurred; the eye and ear are instruments,
each ultimately imprecise, and fuck!—
reveal all sense of order: lies and fraud.

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