after all we are merely chasing an invention,
a body created in the image of an iris
the same way we force the earth to be round.
the romantics call it remnant but we know better,
we inscribe temporality onto tombstone beneath our feet
as vehicle to hold memory beneath this
he said nothing but
the roots reach deep into the curve and entangle
at the core where clarity is still
to perfume green.
after all we only see from the ends of sticks charring as incense
at the grave of ‘remnant’ as the fingertips of
black smoke leave whorled reminders on the same water
in a body of round earth
created like an iris.