I may or may not be:
a posited feline absurdity
curled up on comma paws
inside Herr Schrödinger's booby-trapped box.
Its flask is uncertain
whether to smash-poison my mighty mews
and spew a gray-mouthed cloud
that inky clots neither's sharpening quill.
Entangled buts become
stranded as knots of fuzzy pink yarn, to send
either-or careening
arm-and-arm down imperfect pictured paths,
where Epimetheus
stands, ready to wed Pandora anew,
and doom-birth our many
worlds with the lifting of my thousand lids.
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 11:57 AM UTC
I may or may not be:
a posited feline absurdity
curled up on comma paws
inside Herr Schrödinger's booby-trapped box.
Its flask is uncertain
whether to smash-poison my mighty mews
and spew a gray-mouthed cloud
that inky clots neither's sharpening quill.
Entangled buts become
stranded as knots of fuzzy pink yarn, to send
either-or careening
arm-and-arm down imperfect pictured paths,
where Epimetheus
stands, ready to wed Pandora anew,
and doom-birth our many
worlds with the lifting of my thousand lids.
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