Vessels, containers, pots, shapes, everything
is liquid or gas molded ephemerally into glass
shapes easily shattered and content advancing
across a carpet until it is absorbed,
the carpet itself a membrane containing the floor—
we dwell in the estate of formlessness, even our skin
a receptacle lending curvature, and occasionally beauty,
to chemicals lacking coherence.
Like African and Arabian
nations concocted by colonialists, like a blotch of color
on a painting positioned by a filbert, possessing no
inherent inclination of its own. Like this poem.
Not an anarchical state but a state in which
there is no state,
just liquids and gasses compressed
into shards by liquids and gasses and named by men.
(This poem appeared in Stand in the U.K)