There are no straight lines
in nature, nothing so smooth,
nothing so sharp as what I make
repeatedly, every day, every hour
because I seek to perfect
that which already is.
Casting moulds to clone the self
in the class, on the board
drawing straight lines again
and again the rest follow.
There was only one Adam, as was Eve but
all are Adam and Eve today,
not the children, mind, we believe
we are those sinners flung from heaven.
Such arrogance as that of the sea
consuming, raging, all of this
inside us, you and me.
Spheres, so compact, so efficient,
but no, cubes we prefer
because they fit in everything.
Viewing life upside down
through a teardrop, do you think
maybe it is right side up instead?
But I hold melted sand in my hand, glass,
wavering my vision, it is perfect I say.
So let it be, I am right
only in this world, to think
I can make the mould better again.