The day split, I found myself

Returning to things that had started

And lacked consequence – insectile

Symmetry, words tossed at an axis –

Such doomed repetitions 

Of the real. 

 

What I hoped to mend

Was mystery, was like

Looking for scales you’d cut

And lost to wind or luminance,

The purpose centerless, the time

Enough. Perhaps the edges would behave

 

Differently, or would have to be

Imagined so – submerged, superficial,

Too sharp for air – 

Until the senses learned.