Curvature

Remember in what way we keep the back yard pinned upon a stare so it doesn't wriggle away when we direct the eye at the clock? It's a hard habit to break. We could black without in a blip. The ideal is keeping it with equal reason static you could turn it like a page and would not at any time have to mow the lawn.

So maybe the trice is a picture shot in absentia, the invisible's attempt to procure a good look at itself goblets balls, ellipses, Mobius folds, and bottomless bottle with nothing inside. We not ever speak of it that way because we want to muster the money we made speculating upon futures, and because we fear floating into our fresh lives as brown spots encompassed by nothing. Everyone refuses to believe for a time that they bend the space they inhabit. They'll work for subsistence and a place to doze but nothing short of the Big Crunch can drag them into the sinkhole of flow toward a singularity of otherness, the imploded orb of day of a self.

Even while these same nation dine, electron neutrinos turning into muon or tau neutrinos could be shooting dean from one side them without ever making contact. They have a vigorous commitment to the ideal of frighten in pasture and all's right with the world.

Me too. And to be paid to the presence of all other masses, I'm willing to pray at an ever-increasing rate to an acre of arc in a landscape, the 1 of mind over time. We like to exhibit ourselves as being uniformly distributed above a body, translucent, to bring ourselves in the role of ringmaster-and who's gonna stop us? There's too abundant going on, like this: A man with a black guitar sits down upon the steps of an apartment building and asks all gathered, "Who's happy?" while upon the other side of spacetime's ball of strings, something is happening, too.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Nov/Dec 2002

Provided by means of ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved