Don’t get too worked up over it

by June

White light pulls a center out
from its abundance,
shadow always proportionate
to the sun.
Scientists say there is no difference
between fruit and vegetable,
prophecy of cell division
deals with objects
all the same.
The human head weighs 8lbs
familiarized with subjects before it,
how a child picks up
flipping through the mail
expecting the worst;
every bad thought
a primal instinct,
a map, metaphor
to get around the Earth.
Cubism picked up
on the second person You
revealing abundant perspective;
a more porous assortment,
moments that could have been,
time wasted.
Leave it to chance
which work of art
stares back at you,
which is debris;
which random and meaningless
hypnosis jacks you
with its volition.
What can science say of thirst,
of cacti who keep water
at bay, anxious to sing
from their desert mouth
the intensity of pulp
in love with the sun.
The world has no age
like the pennant on a boyish wall,
what is so uplifting about vision.
Who will remember
reasoning with trust falls,
in spite of belief beyond oneself
scarcity is criteria for a lifetime;
nevermind image of light
suddenly withdrawn, horizon
leveled to one solid tone.
The beginning is sure of itself
as if intact, as if forever
the dog will fail
to seize language, worship
the opportunity to run
so as to enter the house outgoing
gasping for air.

June is a writer and performer. 

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