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.
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