CFC

As if hung from an open sore
Skies opened wide showing their subcutaneous squirmings
Unfurled for circus folk and tractor pulls
All things unswamped with the help of friends
The dark hot nature of things
Leveled and shot through tubing
The drip drip of collected condensation
And yet above
Tied to the skies
With invisible clarity
A million pinholes of light
Creating a dazzling display of beams
A ladder of sorts
A lean-to and less like something to climb
Although plenty of that to be sure
When holes hold hands
The very grips becoming fenced
Those fences disappearing as the depth of field shifts
Back up to down
Marionettes devise pulleys
To open curtains
For larger shows
And velvet with fringe
Should the house catch fire
Drop the last line and look up
All strings crossing the main grid
Caught up in the symmetry
Left to hang
Like sausage or Punch or Judy
Pipes all cut
Channels and passageways tied
A cinch to open
A sphincter or aperture
All ningyō jōruri never quite sure
What final funny is in store
Payment for good deeds
Punished accordingly
Where icebergs wear gloves
Sultry white fingers
Clawing through the waves
Carrying away beds and flags
Or shortened letter combinations
That make the pleasing secondary effects of an inside breeze
Seem utterly innocuous

Thomas Midgley, Jr.