The Catch

This form, I know its angles and its curves;

I know its heft and how it bends the light;

I know the function ev’ry joining serves,

yet, to my hand, the catch is gripping tight.

My hand is tightly gripping to the catch.

I won’t open it up or let it go.

There’s nothing worth it in the chest to snatch.

A vacuum sucks; the things to fill it blow.

(Is meaning lost? Find “thee” a prostitute.

She knows the straighest fare and how it leans.)

The edges of its letters are acute

psychosis, meaning nothing that it means.

There is a catch, without a hinge or lid.

To break it was to find out what it hid.