Today we’ll tackle form –
grapple with its superimpositions
and the swarm of specious unities
it warms and prods us to accept –
its crazy-goose modalities –
inept realities – its sleight-of-hand –
the precious little evidence it grants
for what we think we’re sure
we understand – and which it seems
to think sufficient to remand us
gracefully to Fate: well, here’s
the deal: intending to, I’ve dropped
a lot of weight – there is a hole
as big as Henry Moore inside me:
I am light as all inconstancy;
I’ve shifted to another shape.
Its contours quake: they do not
know yet if they’re fake.
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