The Geometry of Thursday

​The moon was three inches too wide,
so we folded its edges in half
and hid them behind the garden shed
where the shadows go to laugh.

​A philosopher came with a brass compass,
intending to measure the exact length of perhaps,
but he tripped over a stray metaphor
and dropped his spectacles in the soup.

​"You see," said the teapot, leaning slightly,
"the universe is not an equation to solve;
it is merely a very long, very polite joke
that forgot its own punchline."

​The chair insisted on being a window.
The window pretended to be a tune.
And we sat in the middle of the carpet,
sweeping the logic back into the broom.

​We parsed every silence for meaning,
and counted the heartbeats of rain,
until the clock grew tired of ticking
and quietly started again.