Powehi, Black Hole, Sonnet #455

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My Human Disguise.





From every point three axes extend,

Of height, dimension, and depth in all

Directions; each axis points to each point.

But what if the point is not just the end

Or start, let’s say, of an horizontal

Axis, but a kind of reality joint?

Passing beyond each point axes enter

Neg space (unless we’re the minus center).

The black hole boils like a witch’s pot

Turning what there is into what is not.

Does it spew what’s left into a new space

To launch galaxies or an alien race,

Or the negative of our universe,

Everything here created in reverse? 

Oak in Snow Shower, Sonnet #274

The oak won't grow straight or narrow.
Its parsing of three dimensions
Is like an exploded arrow
Or skeins of galaxial suns.
Time is the drifting down of snow.
Some men cut down a dead willow.
For the first time I can now see
The oak out of my front window.
It beckons to the breath in me.
I once compared bare trees to screams.
A stupid metaphor. "Spacetime,"
Too, renames what is with what seems.
Look closely. The oak's branches rhyme
With all we are, as we sublime.