See
Heading outward, I was made aware of my misprinted ideals, that I
obliviated too eagerly, being liberated from debris but not the sun, and that
a formulation was not a discovery.
“Yet a formulation should suffice”, my argument voyaged
into spirals lined in white
chalked numbers, rearranged.
While I was wearing these wrong boots,
squishing, squashing,
in a public exhibition of horrors, my horror speaks–
why would I regress from them, if I, too,
were straight visceral, raw and harmless,
an irreducible mass of stillness, born singing?