Trees
dead as
art rotate slowly
in a Reykjavik gallery
These words aren’t metaphor—
It’s something someone
proposed as
important
Everyone knows where the
parking lots go—
where water
falls
What
is exceptional
is beautiful— until
it bellows cackled threats
Cameras
crop visions
between parallel lines,
our four angles righting
the wrongness of the
unbounded and wild,
boxed safely
within
Art
is knowledge—
a pin to
pierce and affix mysteries
Like bees produce hives—
ants pile hills—
minds make
models
Nature
is stupid—
It won’t hear
nor has it cared
Obliviously
shaped— only
our fleshy thoughts
chalk straightly over it
At every insipid juncture,
we counter nature’s
stupidity with
geometry
Over
our lost
and decaying we
assert two lines, crossed
Our holy heads and
wire wheels praise
the circle,
perfect
God
thinks he
kicked us out
to keep his word
but oh god, no
we were bored
and terribly
tired
We fled the wilderness
when we realized
we invented
joy
Heaven— how our world
made of world
glows, glides,
mends
Yet
light sees
how thinly we
bend our bright threads
I’m not so sure
we’ve got this
beauty under
control