This poem is not in the shape of a page
torn from my life, not multiple perspectives

that revolve around a central anything,
not a carousel, not a Shasta daisy or a trout wriggling,

mid-flight, in the spiral of a falcon’s talons, not
a worm rudely pulled from a rain-soaked lawn, but

a cool jazz riff stu-stu-stu-stuck
like a laser stutter in a cosmic spin.