earth is a centrifuge, and what we take as normal
is in flux.
Eons of atmosphere, continents racing and languages
flung about the planet
are sorted like blood, providing for strange arrangements.
Baby in a well pipe,
lizards in the slit between the window and the screen.
So daylight is a mystagogue explaining the inner
well-being of our cells,
but excluding scrutiny. It will take years to know
concerned with confusions as we are,
what is ample, what is spare, interstitial or dry,
why any stick’s a sword.
So we grow to believe in the two-fisted,
the even-handed black/white, as if each question
was divisible by two,
a mirror looked at edge-on frequently.
So the cells
become sick with evidence, derangements, infiltrations,
the enzymes line dance and the separate functions
lean against the bar with lime and longnecks.
We explain the urgency by saying the heart’s a pump,
biceps a lever,
So deceptively simple, the verbs going one way
nouns the next,
if the shoe fits, bird in the hand, their fleece was white
as the remaining morbid anatomy.
So if things ever stopped spinning, we could walk