The World is Made Of
The world is made of vegetable gardens
and four poster beds that want you to find the area.
Everything has a number.
Death and life are full of numbers.
God is a number,
an undefinable line,
backflipping across your graph paper:
In old stock film footage,
the animals are whole numbers.
The princess, a fraction, is all incomplete
until the handsome prince finds her,
fills her in in all the right places.
The villain may come, he says,
the perfect complement,
the chaos of zero,
the mad hat of deity,
that hole in the number line
where nothing else can go
until some mad mustachioed Indian
draws a line,
pulls it into an arc,
screams aloud his discovery
so that the virgins napping on the hill
splay their fingers in alarm.