Perched on one foot, latching a sandal.
First I see an olive tree—and then the magnetic tree.
Orbits of objects, carefully balanced.
Flick the pupil and, as if by prayer, a lizard is vanquished.

The sea clicks, transmitting foam that plots at random
a group of flies. Turn hard
and you are met by a Khan, flanked by a pair of spindly birds,
picking through axes of rotation—like a battle made of glass,

now in shards. Poppies blister the loam.
Let the slack-jawed run through stone to Judgment.
Those struck dumb in adoration—
for the initial precision of blood, the first rotation—will be saved.