fling

 

fling

 

two projectiles

hurled from

places remote and

quite distinct,

hurtle along

fixed parabolas

as determined by

gravity and

a thousand other

inescapable laws.

 

these trajectories

may cross once,

twice if the arcs are just

right,

but it will not be,

can never be,

thrice.

three meetings

is a distinct,

mathematical

impossibility.

 

unless,

only if things are

just so,

instead they are

flung

directly at one another,

and their various

momenta, their

energies, their

weights, their

paths

are calculated

precisely

such that they in

midair

collide,

and fall to earth

together,

resting

beside one another

indefinitely

until they are

moved again

by forces

not of their own

making.

 

there are

so many variables

in such an

undertaking

that the

chances of this occurring

perfectly are

very slim;

marginal,

miniscule,

nearly

zero.

 

nearly,

 

and yet

not

quite.

***