- Published on Friday, 05 September 2014 15:54
by Spencer Nix
So time yields itself to a plane.
Have we drawn numbers so close and many,
to estimate its place in our minds,
where measurements taper off into a length at least somewhat adequately divine.
Form no opinion except bare foreboding
where the littlest heads build themselves
Cages to have championships in.
Of course they all win, win, win, they're staring at an idol
in a spitting image of self-provoked imagination.
May Pine trees grow from granite and thistle from light.
I am far from a center,
Make moon shape us a star path.
May we walk in energy.
Propel ourselves against space,
cloudless and inconsistent
but in single
recurring for a second infinite time.