At the point of the intersection
between the theoretical line
and point, there’s a dimension,
not of space, nor of time
(those have been imagined
more thoroughly than I’m
imagined by myself), but of sin.
Not the brand to trouble God,
this sin is words that begin
without being misunderstood
(because the speaker winks!)
and conclude that bad is good.
I think the pine trees think
in theorems, plane geometry;
their sap is magnetic ink,
and the splash of red I see
in rose, cardinal and Mars
is blood escaped from my body . . .
as if I had come from a star
to civilize this wilderness.
The beach is the registrar
of every grain of sand. Mass
is energy’s conscience
and confessor. The soul is a gas.
Yet, right angles, in defiance
of the circle’s perfection,
assume the world, and science
escapes reality’s detection.
