In the quiets of closeted thought
What are we doing here?
Halves and halves and never a nothing,
But only halfway to a whole.
Halfway is a highway,
A California one,
Halfway closer to the bottom of everything,
Halfway further to the Sistine Chapel top
And even Michelangelo
Can’t “frescover” this fatal paradox
So if our halfway is near no way,
And Castiglione rewards youth with candy dots,
While the right angle collapses to infinity,
And if today is the day,
The point from which extends a ray,
Then we shall start over,
And seek that dotted line of symmetry.
Sharpen the sheers
With the wisdom teeth of a pained youth.
And cut -
Cut clear-coloring-book-careful-considerate cuts.
Not doom ourselves to the south,
Not cheat ourselves to the north,
But aim for that equatorial line.
Now we’ll hold on, hold on, hold on -
But let go halfway
And in the quiets of closeted thought
We shall plot - to get back what we let go.
Go.