had enough
big thinkers—
great minds who
confine their correctness
to paper.
What it lacks
are choreographers
whose largest ideas
of rightness
or truth
must be contoured
to fit the cramped beauty
of space
like a pair of lace
slippers in their slight
cardboard box—
whose only escape
from the toxified actual
is regimentation
of the bottomless possible—
who communicate
their gospels in
ordinal numbers,
since they know
that all letters are
profligate ciphers
which leave
not enough (or
too many) rooms
for error.
