Lines are mere concepts of the mind, the paths
on the sand of our vista, the motions
and dialogues between variant poles;
where one form begins and another ends,
no folds of boldness encroach on the seam
of its geometry; time wrinkles; time waits;
as wealth's accrued claims - as life that goes on;
time that spins around the orbiting sun,
that runs parallel to the priory of thought,
like pews repeating themselves, like aisles on
grids of silence - recede to their own peace;
and through concentric radiance they emerge
as freshly knitted strings of pearls, or flights
of birds in their rhapsodic cadence.
Read more articles by Simon Tang or search for articles on the same topic or others.