The old man turns, a circle, and watches his death approach.
At that moment, what is the universe whispering?
It says something, I fear, beyond reproach.
Is there turn or trill to grace the old man’s sorrow,
Or fill his burning tears with grace?
Does he see a vortex flushing blood and ink
Out, out into the darkest place?
Spiral outward, now, for greater vision,
Spiral inward for greater force.
It is sunset; equations flow around us few.
Though not linked, we are inseparable, divine.
Take nine sticks and make the sign
Of aleph naught and cross
A bridge from you to you.
We thrive on larvae which twist in a woodwork of our making;
But only when the light refracts just so
Does anyone see ivory glinting in the sun—
[In a later post I will deconstruct the poem, most probably to its detriment]