Folded down upon themselves, storm shutters
Against the abuses of the Self and
Of the Other, bound
Like hands clasped together.
Traceries of images lingered
Burnt like lightning’s path
Upon a brain that could not let go, a heart
That could not forget.
We, this precocious thing
Of legs and words and the brilliance
Of right angles that reach high.
We forget too much, too often that we, too,
Are bound to this Wheel.
That is not here, in the space behind eyes, closed protesting.
The rough edges and smooth hollows, sweet
And small that build the bitter arms of galaxies
Here. Where we begin.
Each thing begins with traceries of light,
Fever dreams of a universe that folds endlessly
Upon itself, unrepeating and unending, simply because
A circle has no beginning. Our days, our eternities
Coiled small for convenient storage, a wave, a double helix.
In an infinity that has no center, a composition
That cannot be unmade because it was never built.
Two hands clasp one another, and we are bound
By what we have done and what we have left undone.