Wrap it with a question mark;
it speaks for itself
it confuses itself
it twists and curves and dives into uncertainty,
ends it all with a period
a mark of finality,
as if to suggest
that curiosity is a finality.
Show it in your voice;
it’ll crackle through the confusion of
unfamiliar voices bumbling over
confidence vibrating in their cords;
but don’t let it fool you, it’s all a trick;
etching onto surface
only the scrapes of certainty—
it’s all a trick.
Widen your eyes—this a dead give-away
your iris will absorb the colors of the world
before it decides, too much.
You wear glasses now,
but you hated the way they
curved your grounds—
you don’t look up when you walk anymore—
but this world was bent
before you saw it bent,
and it was bent
before you bent your frames
to fit them on your face.
Build a chain out of your braces
your sturdy, metal braces
to lock the curiosity in;
and shut it up down the hollow pathway,
and build it a home at the pit of your stomach,
build it a fence.
They won’t appreciate it;
the threatening curiosity,
their worlds shaken, tables turned,
so spare them:
your wide eyes
your question marks
your second thoughts, tongue-tied.
Bend your grounds to match theirs
that you see
through your bent frames, your crooked glasses.