We who live in the fissures               between

smooth monoliths of acceptability

              find no easy peace.
Doesn’t  grass sway predominately in            one direction?

Don’t murmurations thread across the sky

twisting and pulling into skeins of                consensus?
If society were a vessel    we would be the   crazing in its glaze

speckle in the celadon     hairline crack        blemish –

              all things of beauty      and fascination

                                               nonetheless.
If humans were follicles on the vast scalp of the earth

brushed smooth by the comb of averages –

              we would be kink                cowlick              stray lock.
If I were dog    I’d be lean and hungry    scavenging

              at the edges              of a cantankerous pack. 
If I were fish            suspended below the meniscus           between

embrace and exile              I’d patiently wait         lipping at morsels

                                    as they     drift       by.
No.       That’s not quite what I’m thinking –
              I’m picturing a vast ballroom, the synchronised turn and sweep of the dancers

              who comprehend the dance. I’m picturing the lone body who’s failed

              at the choreography and is spinning in an idiosyncratic dervish of their own –

              Spinning, spinning          in a pool of light

              attuned to a different

              kind of music.

                                                    That’s all.