You support and you separate as spaces do or need;
You’re drawn upon—not with pen; upon your function—
not that first glancing line that’s skewed aim at vantablack.
In a day’s 1/96th among craftwork your function’s drawn

in vein of Bertrand Russell’s silver-tonguing coffeetabled
ontology, upon fine-tuned platonic smoothing or
explosive finality of words in books stacked atop surface,
surfaces I’ve yet to trek within. You uphold prismatic car keys,

off-gray polypropylene mug’s game with refraction, distillation
of light sharpening, “Number 2 Pencils Up & Up.” A blither, yet
most fraught, direction for thought. A cohabited 900 seconds to
confine madness and form and formal madness, as all person-

hood’s products are. You’re resting’s referent-- but it’s reticent
“I” who is casted by and rests on your shadows and laurels,
is it not? I who lies and steals the phrasal show of owning lack;
and I abandon and dust-heap as matter tends toward or denies.