The Lesser Systems

By Andrew Seguin

On this day when
the clocks follow the concentric
tempo of a top

and the verb to be
has worn off its costume
so the tongue can pick a place

among pictures, touch
the unsung repose of shut
it's like the spring is one

powder keg of pretty
and all the math that felt
unnatural adds up to up

So stay with me
and stir paint for definitions
give red to melancholy

for all I care
for all I am is care lost
in a cornfield where it seeks

accord, as love
is as much about a person
as the atmosphere they create

around your coordinates
the admissions parlor
the family tree where dinner is religion

No one ever asks
about figments of reality
but they're there

confetti and metaphysics
make a fine pair, as do
lemon and ocean, progress, nocturne

plus other approximate
pronouns such as you and I
and the only chronological

constants worth a dance
the two-step we ones
call on and on

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