I love a map for its inaccuracies,
a certain pearl for its certain pearl-ness.
I wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I’d kill one,
a way of life that keeps me asleep nights,
as if adrift in a niche of big oil.
Symmetry is more or less more
and less bunk—another hole, another
doily; the phrase “Be that as it may”;
the fucking Milky Way by any other name . . .
A touch horrific is the green with which
the ground will tear the winter. I write this
as a florist muscles daisies into place.