After reduced by L. Pasold, Point to the Eye by B. Shimoda
and others...
We've been winging it means
a spinning mobile can rip our heads off.
All of us pinning our hopes
on a new profile closer to the laws
of physics. Jane runs the numbers:
this crescent based on a smiley
outlook, this scimitar to sever hairs.
Alex prefers a gondola mustache.
Vanessa moves that we limit
our activity to dissassemblage,
get ourselves into the youth market.
Another wrecking-ball universe,
says the pres. We open
and close windows, remember air
trapped in feathers, fur, ice
even as the origami minutes
fold inward. A closet full of dirty
ecliptics. Rubber gloves point
every way away is pinker
than our maiden math. What
did she say, does overhead
breed gegenschein?
That's why we're here, what
we're trying to figure out!
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