• Rhythms and Breaks

    Finally, we reached the needle-tip which bore the sky a
    single particle to touch:
    from that One, a hundred;
    a million
    shivering down a Mathman's spire;
    perfection in its tremors shifted by
    the momentary glance of the little Chinese paperboy
    to Terrance down the street, a pipe at hand
    as if a delicate butterfly as
    Kelebek, his dark-eyed Game who shoots those
    eyes at the pipe, at chemical smoke-wings
    that swirl, grow, disappear- becoming
    little hands to tear the Still from
    corners, from Air unknown,
    unmoved for a century
    until the quake which shook the Time
    imperfectly.