I see that cold red dot
At the center of all,
As I stand, myself a spot
Not round, not flat, not tall,
No more than open eyes —
No zenith on horizons,
Just air as thick as sighs
Repeat seeking orisons.
The red dot draws on will
Until I disappear
With nothing to fulfill,
Nothing to find or fear.
At the center of pressure
I can’t take its measure.
