Lance Calabrese

Demonstrate a circle  its
simplicity   a straight line is
by definition perfect    too.

Regenerate this then    on screen or page
sudden flaws become persistent    errant ink
those pixels misaligned. Magnified I    note          
the incomplete saturation 
piebald    white shows through
the otherwise uniform layers
a night sky where dawn breaks
the black and a string's-end

weight follows the Earth
balance discovered in its swaying.
my friend's van rattles round the corner
the same    orange    weakening sun
so rusted it harkens an engine's
entelechy    the final click click click
long after the first turning over
and perfectly heartening
for it must run down if it runs
reliably    like dusk
like her blue satin slipper

floating cross our unlit chamber
quickly to bed passed the closed door
under which a raveled line of hallway glows
revealing fabric's minutest wear
from carpeted strides    cold closet
to warm feet    a motion perfected
through repetition    degenerating
silently    on her way
the very thought

projects an ideal
like ruffled sheets    wind-rent silk
or the creak of an orange door
closing awkwardly
echoing the driver echoing

microscopic errors
in the ink in the letter in the line
mechanical flaws
extrapolated to chasms

in the tangled nerve's red
between eye and Earth
an engine pings familiar footfalls
cozy sheets

the string's-end plumb
never levels until beatified
through its slow swaying
to a halt.




The San Diego painter, Bob Plumb, used to drive around in an orange VW van that had slowly disintegrated with the years. It suited him well.