Under what rooted pole,

what stockinged thigh,

does earth's bold framework,

tempered grid lie?

x

Measured ocean,

does not adjust itself

parallel to y.

I could climb,

but I cannot try.

Fingers make crypts

biding dilates easily,

fancy strikes no following.

x

Lives lie in beakers.

Temptations

seizing claustrophobia.

Meek enzymes live ignorant

without motion sickness.

x

It does not scroll,

yielding to circumference.

Not forgotten,

sexed script teasing

interest. I cannot measure,

cannot repent

for the lush jungles.

x

The wizened

ducts, precipitate timelessly.

Like shocks,

romantic remembrance.

Sole epidemic

threatens progress.

We pose like mannequins

to maintain equidistance.