In nature, patterns are pervasive:
the tessellated surface of a honeycomb
reeks geometry, while moth wings—
two papery mirrored halves—ogle at birds.
Under the eaves you’ll find the silver mesh
of spider’s web, prismed in sunlight.
And, in the depths, sea anemones swell
into being, evenly shaped.
Still, my nerves
tell me something different—
that even in alignment, the world
spins askew. How easy
it is to walk in fields of flowers
that teem symmetry. The golden
mean dictates creation: in time lapse, petals
radiate into perfect circles.
But something about the lopsided way
we swing our arms as we walk
suggests a sloppy carelessness. Something
about the lilted corner of mouths smiling
crooked smiles seems more truthful.
How pleasing, to feel
in the gut a creature—
core of being—feral,
Every twitch of the eye
hints at the erratic. Every step,
sporadic, at beautiful failings.