You know me, know the resting edge,

I casually align to others’ lines,

when you cut through my mind.

I can see your body while you speak,

and you speak of maps, and I think

of Jasper Jones, triangulated gaps.

Here, an estimated weight of panels,

a fitted turn over squared timber.

Remember, how that shapes a palm.

Art off the wall, changing its form,

and its wearer’s, skin, flesh and joints.

I want your words to wrap you up.

You know that. You’ve met my gaze.

You’ve gotten slimmer as you speak,

and you speak of landscapes far away,

and I conjure Jones, a blanket of frames

so big, their folding leaves indentations

you can feel. Just the stuff you say.

Shifting into your own, articulating out,

we keep recollecting simple geometry.

Edges sticking in, edges sticking out.

Still new to me, as it must be for you,

that a man can figure his own theory.

You, all phenomena of ragged shapes.