The End of The Universe.

Tiny angles cross and meet,
dissecting and connecting every inch
of every thing.
Perfect, infinite streams of points,
each a singularity,
from each a universe unfolds--
they all take up
so much space.
Fortunately, they can overlap,
and ineffably always have.
Each tiny point, of each tiny angle,
together comprising what appears to be
an arc, a line, a germane curve, is simply what here,
does not overlap;
it is what mustn't exist any where else,
it's what juts into our space from its own--
extended like a bit of wet newspaper--
and delineates our existence.
Pieces of others, their cosmic edges,
intrude and paradoxically,
constitute ours.
Those germane curves run the slope of your nose,
your fingertips and mine,
each blade of grass and husk of corn,
Mt. Ararat and the Acropolis,
each wave of the brave Pacific,
The whole marble sphere,
Our blue-green pearl elliptically awash
in the sea of noble Sun,
and to the edge of what
seems to be everything.
But what happens at the edge?
How might an edge exist?
Graciously, we overlap,
eternally we overlap.

Your Time As A Leaf.

I.
Hail hail, the young brash-eyed writers of tomorrow,
age is a velvet veil, hiding the daring Rimbauds as urchins,
disguised as the serf washing your car, lifting and carrying
the plates away from your tall table, juggling books on bicycles;
they will write our histories up to the vertiginous cliff,
frolicking wildly,
endlessly scrawling winding cryptic signs into paper,
pen in hand,
digging, laughing, creating,
siring reams and reams of incandescent wit.

Trial by thought sorts them to one another,
seeking a graceful construction as inquisition,
the proportion weighed in connotations and utterances,
gilded in beatific silver and ideologic clarity,
picking up and leaving off and staring
stolidly into the lean, posh mainstream and the box,
denying the urge, decrying the ease, protesting the ilk,
that dishearteningly shallow dive
into what begs and begs
the deepest treatments in keenness and verisimilitude.

II.
The gift of Illumination, granted in driest corners of the mind,
soberly logical, analytical,
touched at their edges with bright beams,
irradiant, the Muse-Sun's gaze illuminates the laborsome reason,
inflaming it in passion, enshrining it in Natural Truth.

Change, change, hail to the new and changeful,
ride into tomorrow with a mirror on your back,
so those stuck in today can see themselves,
and you cannot feel their insistence and irrepentance,
but only the sun at your back.

III.
Eyes in distant admiration of the grandness of life,
feeling at its harsh wooden veins,
the coursing web of
the Earth's green floor, roots of wisdom,
generations bud, bloom, and die, flutter down, crisply,
making room for the next, given back to the ground,
--and so time as a leaf is short,
give back to the tree,
siphon the sun, heave its weight up on your back,
bless it with your leafness, then pass it on,
back to our tree and our Earth.

Grass Green

The dulcet green grass waves,
billows as a sheet,
A sheet upon a wave,
the wave around a ship,
the waves of grass all sway and wave--undulate,
dulcet as the tone, dropping their guard,
their dusty brilliant sheen, the sharply dropping green,
and glossy wave and shimmering slender
dulcet green stalks as shining dust,
struck by light in rays, particles, waves,
and the roots stuck sapping,
brown easy growth through the woody veins,
as a wave through a sea
through a ship
through a soul
through a dulcet field of billowing grass green.