A stubbornly green corn stalk against a house that does not curve.
Shallowness rolling breakers for aeons.
Wrinkles going gently into the night of permeable tunnels.
Galaxies inventing humanity.

Love is inescapable.
(Gods reside provocatively in singularities.)

Traversing ice sculptures of old, every hexagon
another’s choice crystallized, unearthed by dust storms:
Baseball is what it can be.
Because circularity is not a logical warp but a quantum leap
that defies prepositions.

Those who get left behind are neither cowards nor commandeers.
Yet, in some dimension, that reality defies
the morph into mourn.