The Room

Spiral painting
on one wall,
another on another.
Bet I can find another
with luck and a little peek
inside my chest.
It’s not prophecy
to say that —

I know how
entropy
works. I know art 
in a room can’t stop it.
I know art in fact stops
nothing.

This rude muscle
of mine pumps
in a circular rhythm 
played out on paper
on the walls around me.
Sheet music for closure.

I love this room for its mirroring
of human finality; for the heart
twisting in, toward inevitability,
always ready.