What flush of cold distortions shivered the shapes,
became lambent eye waves,
at last?
Skewed the eversince subtly-skewed-already  
            that’s in the light?      Or the cubed      mundane disguises?
like:
the wall’s edges, your desk’s corners, the dead fullness of
strewn ecru pages [crepitating by the open garage door, a breeze]
showing all your rustled struggle, wrestled with, agelessly, and the boxed
form of it—your books—upturned, but floored—

or maybe, all that shook was your sorrowful shoe, its face—
dejected
on its side,
final ***** lace limp on the bottom, below you,
to go with you no more. No more movement
anymore.

Was it, then, unskewed?

And had it always been there at the thick of your throat, had it just
been the tongue in the way, spoiling? Was everything in the world you saw
small then big, too big then small, like
a ****** mouthing of out then in, a throbbing, grabbling of you—
couldn’t tell if the biting was harmless, playful teeth?

You’d say no to me, to all of this, and think maybe. Was it the maybe?