by Gideon Burton
The infinite. How can we think this through?
What traction tracks eternities for us,
the moths of six or seven breaths for whom
an errant breeze returns us to the dust?
What frame for the unframed when all
we have are thin durations, end-to-end,
extrapolating endlessness from small
extensions, mathematics crudely bent.
The best we have are repetitions, paced
in spiral iterations and the arts
of ignorance and hope: the past replaced
implies a future as a whole's implied by parts.
And yet, I stay more certain of forever;
the rest remains, though I change like the weather.
Photo: flickr - caese
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