René Descartes

The moon
was a small
uncooked tortilla
Descartes was cutting
into little pieces
in the dark
while the Supreme Infinite
crawled under the table
for some scraps.
Elsewhere, I could feel
a slight itch
as though the fly
that had landed
on my soul’s
wobbly dinner table
was pondering
his next move.
Is he going to go
for the rusty
and bent fork?
Is he going to fly
right out of here?
He’s going to
fly right out.