I’ve been calculating the distance
between paper dolls with Pythagorean precision,
somehow deriving formulae as wild
and metaphysical as Mars from the theorem;
which was conspicuously tidy,
yet dry of time and the animus of intention.
Each doll is a deviating iteration of singular design,
but bitten and then pulled anew to extend a fresh axis –
a different navigation from the caprice of the moon,
How graciously that galaxy landed
into constellations of steps and stars
– wise garnets of blood and history –
that annihilate me like a mine
with each whirl I take astray from them,
into the shadowy tango.