Tries to define the intersection
Of flesh and everything
His spanner eyes
Peer, grappling with the
Gears of the universe
Passion is a curve
A perverted slant;
The shan’t to his must
Even circles twist -
There is nothing Euclidean
In this sly existence
He curses, hammers, scores,
Sure that, this time,
The sky itself will bend.
But precision eludes him
Elision creeps,
Steeping him in sleepless sweat
Next time, next time,
Next time, next time,
Next time, next.
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