we're not
a bumper crop
of objects—
not flesh-
pots studded
with knuckles and knots—
not clots of extremities
wound around a vacancy—
not performative
failures of symbols
to mean—
so too
do the words we might
use to express this
all sing and tap-dance
a little too
enthusiastically
in an attempt to drown
out the deep
throb of unbelief;
in lieu of clean
embodiment
of recognition's
idling engine,
they strut
and fret their hour
upon the stage—
they practice
and pose
and preen.
