An array of rays
Cut short on rubber,
Centrifugal panning out
Silent in brush,
Ripe with crawling upons,
As doomsdaisy
Stems have might as welled
Into vines—
Bunkered crosshatch
Beyond marble roll
Of love me nots
And answer dos.
Spin: no mother, no father,
No button, no bomb;
Typical.
Pluck: planets away,
An ant a sixth step off
And any planting down
The ceaseless helix
Staircase of decimal
Resting on a floor at hand.
Yes, it matters.
Nothing fancy,
Think damned, cursed,
Promised, destined;
An inevitable perhaps
Doesn’t have to be
Such a big deal.
