start with a sharp-edged cube of ice
and let it melt, just a little, in the air;
the corners round,
taut edges dew and relax. But
what shape melts into that sharp cube?
Perhaps something with frosted fractal
corners, many edges to catch the breeze
of cooling and melt into purity.
You see this in soccer, just before
sweaty tired players rotate
into the awareness and clarity
of a perfect sequence of passes:
a moment before perfection
that contains that perfection in it
but is imperfect, unevenly
distributed, overgrown, or
otherwise complicated.
What does the ideal blade look like
just before it is sharpened?
What does that unbelievable joke
of distilled contextual hilarity
feel like just before it escapes
your mouth?