When the world
with its half-cocked clarity
splintered and rent,
the men upstairs
flipped their cards on the table,
sloshed a waning moon
of oak-sweet brandy
down shaft,
excised,
and chortled.
A slick-skinned one inquired,
But what of their ways
and the ebb of
mountains?
Their stuttered
compaction
of progress strapped
dispersal?
Swollen with life,
yet hung aloft
with lie-licked
tendons
and coddled veins?
And what for their
frequency?
A crystal-fractal one replied,
To deviate
is to blossom.
No errs preside
en domus,
not a gaped chasm
in its spine.
For want to
rub and bump
and shake
their calcium
and holler at the sky,
For I am fixed to no one,
and everything to I!
