TO A POINT

Infinity, finely, takes
Pen slightly dripping
points out of its inkpot,

dries it carefully upon her robes
& places a delicate/fine period
to The Empty sheet of paper
where she chooses
& then places her black Will
back in its inkpot,

contemplating her work:
An infinitesimal dot is
the point of Infinity,

and satisfied, She says: "All's
justified--Man rolls his score
and I make my points," but circles
whose tiny circumferences
although no larger than points
are endless as all eternity: She
taking The Whole thing to her eye,
says then: "Time is
but an infinite line
looked-on as a point," and runs

full circle to Th'Point:
An instant
which rushes at us with all
manners of artificial fire-displays
flashing! which when it hits
us: Bursts! up Every-
thing a zillion ways like puffs or
soapbubbles evanescing

the hour, the days, th'age

so gentle the hour gentle as
feathers are th'days, flexible
the age & we grasp it by its graspable
end, refusing to let go,
tickling a chin or two
with it, or fanning away sweat from
a brow, this is the gentlest
hour, like feathers the falling days--into

one ( an age )which we're certain
won't break (from brittle-
ness) were we to
drop it hard

so    

we drop it!