Fixed in the grid
with angles squarely set;
locked, as it were,
in the matrix:
Let us not be thus;
cubistic in crystal,
vibratory in place—
separate from the music
that circles away.
with the wheels that turn.
Outside of place settings
the compassed garden
the arc of planets
encircles the endless sky,
one vertex sticks out of the mud.
There are stars that never rise or fall
offering ample cover from the trickster
gamboling the rushes with a tambourine,
the percussive cymbals in three degrees.
The dimple deepens with the curling smirk
for the dying kings swallowed by darkness,
black holes patient for every random star,
tangerine sunsets after the harvest.
Ouroboros shrinks into quarks abuzz
regardless of amber snapshots of gist
and the painted minstrel marks the folly
of the crouching predator in plain view.
Dew falls from the moon,
glistens still, the sound in bones.
North wind chills the night;
the Chronograph Star hangs low—
the fertile morrow dormant.