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 -
we stoop.

Susan Adams

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