The Object Meets Itself

The object meets itself, as air to air—
As dice throw out a virgin militance
Unearthing each’s traveled manifest.
So each deep-graven rock-face flares
To meet another’s vectored stare
Which of its partner’s contour is possessed
In essence only, extension re-amassed—
Finitesimal by right of self-song’s courier.

And so the tune, well-sconced on the lip’s crust
Plays a skirting, caustic game of double cat
With a vast and disinterested empty tongue
That bats aside the coy and teasing ‘must’
Convulsing ‘gainst that wrong and useless rung
Yet with some good leisure—tracing a mute vowel.

Isaac Schott-Rosenfield