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.