Soap/Box: a geometry of passage; or Fresh outa Kansas

What’s fear, we feel
to touch the curving edge
that never turns and ever
turns and never ends?
For orbs emerge to merge
and tentatively hope to

end and start a glassy envelope.

Sublime and lim
we meet, two bubbles
you and eye,
attendant on those large
and small, reflect
without

the necessary charge.

Upon this concave face
revolves subtangent doubt

and vacuum vexed within.

So circumspect and
scripted prior
is this parody of
soundless
music ground from out the

spherical celestial choir.

Slight echoed mention:
We sustain through
courtesy of such
a tender rending tension
released and ceased
by mostly loving

touch.

But motion and emotion
spin
from ultimate,
impossible,
a blastosphere propulsion
blessed by navigating
whim and wish
ing that our pious
volume could be
measured

out in ozs.

(such radi
ance descends
in fantasy and pipe dreams
measured fair. yclept
the corners of the
globe, the pointing
pointed tesser
acting angles
of the sphere
within

a sphere)

What wonder then that we
should see
this fear,
and hope to join
in voiceless
shimmering expansion—
thinking big is bigger
in a universe
of
lines—which
stands a

part from gleams that

curve in tachyonic glee.

All eye wish for me
and thee
is

cease

to be a surface

Burst with me
and let the tiny
not so hollow
mystic tiny mirth
descend so slowly
Hope with me that
fragments might collide
before
they kiss the
ever
flatter curving
surface
of

the
earth.