then faint on the grass
we look at the sky, wondering
eggshell facts melt on our faces
life isn’t quite irresistible
nor do you have to be suicidal
to stare in death’s eyes
the offending knives
the slatted square rooftops
we might have made rounder houses
to inhabit
if some Roman hadn’t
been enamored with
miles of aqueducts
Mozart’s turn
stilled some square beasts
emptied buckets filled
with tears of fallen actors
no one’s seen through the gauze
we spy comets through telescopes
talk of the hole at the galaxy’s center
as if it were more in the middle
than zero itself
but tenderness is in order
for us, the ones who hold choice
in our sad palms
we with our sacred brains
our striped jumpsuits
our inefficient galoshes
our ponytails and track suits
and in the past, waistcoats,
tulle, corsets, and stockings
we stitch together experiences
into webs of memories
forgetting for a while
the place on
the edge of the razor
