In use, ties on a rail line skirting
the sky that’s a bay
on a map.
Alone, a squid in profile
by Picasso or Braque.
Disassembled, shrapnel
from Juno and a whittled
Madonna in halves.
Two back to back, a W
collapsing or an M
with a hat.
Thrown in the fire, just
wire — red hot. Or stood
on end, a tango,
a waltz, an intimate chat.
With an eye up to
the helix-hole,
a locket-sized portrait
of whatever one wishes,
living’s live-action cameo —