Our world was never round.
There are corners at every question mark
with angles to turn on our trespass forward.
Sight is not a straight line
but a curve that meets itself.
Destiny slots its cutouts.
Do we hold the jigsaw
or is our path determined before
our footprints scar.
Square cubes in a round sphere.
Our shoulders don’t fit under this sky
edges pressed down at the sides -