White pear blossoms blurring on the downhill stride;
cloud veins branching, bursting blue-blood lights and streaks;
marmalade fractal-smudged bites in a Sunday;
points on the mounts’ horizon, range upon range
dipping over the edge of the world;
angles drawn with straight lines on that world,
bending Euclid, because they can,
because they must – no limit to truth when the paper
crumples, crumbs of calculations dropping off like forsythia-yellow stars.