I may or may not be:
a posited feline absurdity
curled up on comma paws
inside Herr Schrödinger's booby-trapped box.
Its flask of uncertain
whether smashed to poison my mighty mews
and spew a gray-mouthed cloud
that inky clots neither's sharpening pen.
Entangled buts become
stranded as knots of fuzzy pink yarn send
arm and arm down imperfect pictured paths,
stands, ready to wed Pandora anew,
and doom-birth our many
worlds with the lifting of my thousand lids.
— Francis Scudellari