The door that swings ’round with a
Bend-it-like-Bekham, the windows
That crawl up to the ceiling and stay;
The apple that curses in gala-esque
Trite and wonders at butter knives
Coring its innards;
The oddly opaque and underused
Tape that sorries with blackness on
Desks;
And somewhere, tossed across worlds,
The wall with a bonfire of souls at
Its feet.
Impossible, singing and dancing at
Corners, murdering naves at the next;
Such world, such world I sling into
Prayer: You can help it, no?
But who am I talking to? you
And myself in the roundabout, round-robin
Race of the day, as I close the great
Door that started the business
Of thinking.