Roscoe Saunders
Tetris and Questions of Infinity
Oh, Tetromino, can we spin a while longer?
This lemniscate dance is dangerous, I know,
but slipping on ice is far preferable
to whatever awaits above.
I am set at ease by your presence, so please,
tell me: is there an indefinite strategy?
We grow closer to the tetrion ceiling,
the gaps we left below so out of reach––
and the skewed pieces grow engulfing in their tide.
I no longer ask if we can spin forever,
because this is no way to live, back against the wall.
But hold on to me, please. I’m afraid of topping out.
Tetromino, tell me there is beauty in the end,
like four lines flitting into nonexistence,
a meteoric straight piece at its side.
I’m full of fear that the Overbalanced Wheel won’t turn,
or the monkey won’t typewrite Macbeth word for word,
or the sun will explode, if bombs don’t end things first.
Tetris, give me clarity, focus, the time to set things
in the right place. I’ve dug myself out of holes before,
filled the gaps I needed to, but I’ve never avoided the end,
never escaped a malexecuted T-spin or a misplaced piece.
Tetromino, nobody can do the impossible, right?
