The full deck gusts outside the playground
briefly forming an aerial house of cards.
I see a woodlouse chasing a tiger,
and square pegs in square holes.
An atom is the part of your throat that sticks out.
Every Sunday I am a bicycle.
Famous Dialogues lie on a table.
Enter Socrates, winged by the medium’s
dot to dot. Solvent without solution,
ignoramus champ of all history,
I think of you sending away a would-be
empiricist with a flea in his ear,
then sweeping to the end of the argument —
reality as a series of diagrams.
Secateured titan, I dreamed a random river
whose surface’s inflexions shimmered
with every possible geometry
where all-envisaging blindness hatched
and crossed as chance, swollen with potential,
surged against the given, sculpting a world
where botched and sublime bloomed without design