Oswald had no chemistry that hung in the trees like gossamer threads of dream…
he only had quadrants of ambergris, drifting in the iron lungs of impossible Tuesdays
twirling all the calendars of false pavilions on a carousel of too many moons.
Oswald had diamonds in open wounds. He saw how the beautiful ones
had Mondays that Saturdays envied to distraction.
and all the Roman roads were mapless.
Oswald combed the earth for a fraction of pearl
but found only a bounty of weightless
Design.

too heavy to be god.
too beautiful
to be
not.