Symmetry was discovered by the curiosity of knives.
Where do vanished thought bubbles go?
Scramble, do they, out of reach until they decide
to grant us calm stability?

Chins of cats are restless under bruised rain.
On apple nights, we seek the softness of
orange-and-calico patterned buffalo robes
and struggle to compute eternity.

The lines etched of leather and crude cavemen drawings
on our legs and necks and shoulder blades
shall perish and rubber goats eat rectangles
with pupils shot by clamorous streetlight suppers,
and prairie dogs search for meaning in the corners
of florescent, dirty satellites, but nonsense
is a paperclip in and of itself and a
paradox is only a misconception if it’s
tired of leaning against nonexistent doors.

The knives are hungry for knowledge;
backpack strings shall sate them,
Good Samaritans give them credence –
shall you?