If it were to be
like setting a saw down,
tired, while your glance mounts
casually through a black diagram
of midwinter maples to the moon's
Euclidian purity, to the orbits of the stars...

Dying, that is, body
old saw, placed on its horse
or hearse, from weariness,
while — cold, illumined — one immense
Mathematic takes its place — radix
beneath our sawdust days, in its branches the light-years...











By permission of the author.