Pi
We have played life’s
Infinite moves
A myriad of meanings
We follow definitions
After definitions
Ours is creation without rest
The toil of night and day
Breathing of clay into clay
For one elusive stillness
All human movement quests
Have we walked the earth in spirals
Searching for a center, to reduce
Universe into rectangles: house,
canvass, paper?
How we become our designs
Our lives spanning the cosmic scales
In their equation, the universal
skeleton
Bounded outside by obscure knots
and tangles
While inside, the moon keep its brightly
stare
Possessing us of the terrible sphere.
A Dying Spell
Coming home for the long vacation
We wish have seen our younger years
Now in this way we return to order
Living but the frenzied part
Not here where life has learned to
be pliant
Well-trimmed in the manner of hedges
In the way of cat preying on its
first lizard without rites
In the lizard taking defeat into
its stoic eyes
Here one senses a pact from ages
made
How the birds silently to their
deaths retreat
Or the withered flowers in time
to buds yield
And so nothing to seeming eyes change
And daily our own solemn part we
keep
Sweeping dead leaves, replacing
rolled-down stones
That ants and termites undermine
no end
(Who will stop them digging their
own graves?)
In evenings we congregate over feasts
And talk of some convoluted fears
That later we allay by endless litany
Of saints we heave unto our sleep
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