What are these statues
we're all turning
into?
The slightest
discrepancy—a pea
beneath the mattress—
is all that's required
to stilt integration,
to pause "Good
Vibrations,"
to completely upend
the conversation.
*
Perhaps
Yeats misspoke in that
things fall apart;
perhaps they just harden
and reduce
and conserve. Until
all that we are
is lines, arches
and serifs—some dawn
just behind,
some ahead
of their curves.
From Abraham and Sarah,
to Peaches
and Herb—
sooner
or later, everyone
is a word.
