Newton lives on the anticline
Watches the dulled horizon with spyglass reversed
How far it all is, he thinks
And from this angle, oh how close the stars
Gravity is mostly imaginary
Wallpaper birds are seldom still
Stealing faces and strawberries
Chairs move in fixed points around the sun
If we idly sit, if vacant
They remain a kind of sundial
Waiting for circling shadows
To forego in their orbits
All the harmonies of the spheres
And in that expected (but unpredictable)
Falling apple shaped hiatus
To reach a less
Substantial conclusion
Scientists grew tear ducts
In a jar
Spent the day in mockery
Until they cried
A seldom kind of love
For their bastard child
Poked and prodded, niggled
Shamed, curtailed
Obedience praised until
The organism wept
The experiment, upon repetition
Bore bitter fruit
Inconsolably weeping
With just a half an hour’s
Earnest jests