Sooner or later,
we all try on
we all try on
those loaded
clothes which
the monist wears—
before its base parts,
the chaste
whole is paraded:
one Circle,
from which wretched
arcs are created.
Surely, Unity
is a fabric
whose richness
we can't fathom—
and yet
such a fine habit
fits tight,
and it itches. Plus,
with what
will we pay
when the time
to tithe comes,
our pockets
now empty, even
of atoms?
