My project, history, in this order. Rather: in disorder.
A landing site, a jam, a man nestling his own chest.
Pick a beginning and stick with it. Maybe another.
A ship with its sails unfurled: a panting, wordless hound.
Squint, and the silt or shift of it might resemble home.
We heap a foundation into this sediment that curls.
The word, untroubled by the cry of crow or crown.
This fractal site of verse and versatility veers.
But, with age, who can guide the canon’s surly tongue?
Swear: the phrase of the past remains subject to revision.
As from a tangram, arrangement bestowing meaning.
Archives of shifts, a surveyor’s map, this roe of road.
His figure, cast in duplicate, reckons with its doubling.
A witness to its own begetting, shore and line.
The arrangement of the fourteen discrete lines of this poem is determined by a Facebook poll. As such, the poem remains incomplete and shifting, and is constantly reordered by the inputs of its readers. The following iteration was recorded on January 1st, 2019, at 9:30 a.m. EST. Link to the live version. Here is a screenshot of the latest iteration as of 10/27/2019, 3:20pm Eastern Time (GMT-5).