Shall I dwell upon the surface, or
Dive into the depths? Doesn't it depend
Upon the end, the object, the bend of will?
I'm sitting on a surface, my feet upon a surface,
My skin enfolded by surfaces. Each keeps
Its own texture, density, mass, extension, tension,
Opacity, load-bearing capacity, elasticity,
Light sensitivity, composition, and dexterity.
If I could align my eye parallel to these
Planes, would their silent undulations not
Reveal depths? Rolling folds, fissures,
Depressions from long-standing pressures,
Pressed upon their. . .surfaces? My own
Surface cracks at the sinister-side of its cavern,
Curling up cheek folds, closing up a window, to
Keep out--ALL-TOO-SERIOUS--depths; dark,
Shadowy burglars what steal away the best
Superficialities.
