Toothless sinew before the tremble —
played to the polar violin.
Encircling our own symmetry
but cogged by innocence
your tunnels are conquered
by a charcoal flammability.

Worlds before we were born
are non-linear. One gravity
upon another’s depravity.

Let’s bypass the usual commentary
and the worn edges of story.
Pierce my daisy, the white sybil
is not order; centers nothing, this
cramped humanity.

Empty are the shells, the
scribble of granite and the recitation
of tenderloin are at a friction —
impasse belingers,
and they don’t wire, the locked,
caste-gatedness of history.

Give me your hand, give it to me.
This limbo is industrial,
meta-surreal, like the arms
that feed us: the surrender
just before bridges become
asunder before a destructive divinity.