or politicals gerrymandering the soul
lost in its own comprehension,
never guessing how much it loses by that.

Nature is not a countdown
nor are the human arts—despite
tenant metaphors pricking ears
because of the cold ground
which does not give
below one’s feet—material possessions:

the arms, legs, lips—they
who may hold the ladder steady—

posthumously loving—Be my grave—

                                             my world—