Poem From Microscope Man

It could also be a return to something simple, a world of closed loops where kinks and corners weren't invented, where animals mixed and organelles slipped through each other, eating inside each other within impossible rooms of gelatin. Out here, we hold the line cold and fast. We lock and crimp sharp. The circle is only an ideal we can't match. The thought comes up from the tube of body and brain. And I want to make vows. Promises give bones to my ameboid nature, freeze me into a shape. Keep time from spreading me. I can imagine leaning back into someone I can trust, someone loyal. I would vow first, pledge allegiance, then assume it would forever be the same and equal, a stasis. Days would pass and pass, morning first judgements, afternoon fulfillments, evening muddled driftings and slow, graceful nights.