crooked

We look down.
Flooding books with words;
Oceans written, read, wrung dry,
Pages twisted, curled, and cracked
Nevermore lie flat.

We look up.
A craze of sticks to scaffold heaven’s height;
Plato’s plane upon our tortoise backs,
Aligning to a trillion fractal cataracts,
We lie and never rise.
We look out.
A thousand cuts beyond the bob,
A pint of innocent blood,
A dab for the quill to prime the flood.
We shuffle, shift and lay a finger;
We lie until we’re ready.
And then we measure.