paper mache strands

stack haphazardly

teeter, totter.

A mound to be found

in Whoville. Who would

whisper, woo-hoo,

whizzle. What?

The slabs look

unmovable.

Do you dare your hands

to reach out, test

its tenable strength.

Your extremities seem exotic

alongside its surface.

Smoothly sturdy,

subordinate.

What have those hands

met before this moment? What

softness have they gathered

between their vacant spaces?

What events have led to form,

your sunken moon craters,

which change phases into script work  that starts like a poem.