Desire for a life without corners

Is strongest in the blind,

Whose implicit enjoyment of the random

Carom is greatly restrained by edges.

But poets follow close on their heels,

Not so much led as beguiled,

Hoping to find a smooth, lingering

Transition from pod to pea.

My grandfather taught me

That cutting corners leads

To dogeared lives.

He was a shingleweaver:

No thumbs.