Anfractwhat? Or How Straight Is Straight?

Unwavering
as an arrow
that spins
in order to slice
air, which isn’t as straight
as a ruler’s edge,
the arrow that is,
which has nicks
in it even after sanded
with rough, gritty
protuberanced-paper,
the arrow and
the ruler’s edge,
and when I sit
up straight
to write
there’s curves
in my spine
and when I look
I see straight
through imperfectly
sphered balls
ink drips
from the pen’s
rounded tips
whose nibs whip
blobbish droplets
into direct connects
between a and b.
Crooked fingers
grasp banded shafts,
wrists rotate to create
finely finished lines,
pencils’ leaded
conical points
traverse
in starts and stops,
leave little dots,
dupe fools
into thinking
unbent is without
twists or turns,
but I’ve learned
how anfractuous
straight really is.