i.
it's said we weave a web, or
that writing seduces my friends
by its perfectibility; we work
to sharpen this fang against
the stone, to fashion escapism
into escape, time-loop stories
a clean read of our era, windows
we climb to from hopes of air,
us foolish readers of others en-
dangered by our limitless desire
for a future outside the mirror-hall
we're told bounds subjectivity.

ii.
one plinth in this bazaar of gall-
erists attracts a crowd: it holds
a Platonic solid, ideal form from
another age -- but this one's eve-
ry face reflecting our times with
a one-way inwards mirror, so that
under our eyes infinity undulates,
projecting imperfections until we
see fractals twisting out of each
telescopic octagonal navel, anxie-
ty as inward beauty with such art
we might imagine it art's purpose.

(google employees got free tickets
 to this event, where pieces with
 listed prices were $1-10,000; when
 last at fort mason I sat quite near
 this octahedron's spot, lost myself
 in the dances faces and regalia of a
 Two-Spirit pow-wow and left
 beaming and bashful reflecting
 so much outward beauty)

iii.
we cannot see the future and yet
must catch it. so weave! to this
end. we chew our selves with analysis
too much to be a tarantula and not
fall prey to paralysis, so weave! together
and strongly: we'll need a tangled web
to find an order better
than those we're shown; so help us weave
a world better than those we've ever known.