Lay down your arms. Limbs,
mannequins of violent angles.
Shrapnel nails. Plastic smiling.
Chests twist in Mobius smoke
pale as cigarettes. Addicts for
throats like the Old Testament.
Parallelogram claws intersect
intention with a perpendicular
pastel. Its softness cracks like
china. Roundness to tectonics.
The chips tingle ice. Isosceles.
Dishes shake at sixty degrees.
Why should we see sharpness,
shapes where colors could flow?
Drink analytically. I’d rather cut
your hands than calm the stirring.