at the end of all values,
only spheres remain.
they are
irreducible,
slick as oil,
and
colliding in the dark.

lords polish theirs with debt,
celebrities inflate theirs with ghosts,
like a tattoo that crosses
three beauty marks and
two veins.
monks?
true and counterfeit
monks
balance theirs on needles.

peasants drag theirs
through the mud of zero,
while semi-peasants
mistake theirs for faces.

the robots?
oh!
they’re busy building
the next,
tighter net
from our broken chains.