Heavy, we’ll be
and roughly round
a Forepaugh’s daughter
always anemic and
moving below the
bottommost chamber
Is a fragment ever whole?
Is a splinter ever just itself?
Is that skyward gaze forever null?
May dust be yours
These buoyant fingers grasp no thing
There’s naught outside
That wasn’t seen
Who dares
Who stares
Shall break the atom
A perfect form
Can’t be undone
A cannonball not taken back
A sordid word
Can’t be contained
Within self-serving breath