37

Scrub the rose on the rock til it bleeds
And the thorn persists with the stone,
The broken grain that remained and formed
The centre of the perfect world.

Beg for the rain til it falls and ask
If you hated it more for not falling
Or loved it and whether the difference
Was more or less than the difference

Between the sweat you lost in the tilling
And the warmth you gained from the grain you ate—
And how and if there could be such a measure
Or a means to measure the rise and the fall

And if the angle you drew from the tangent
To the grain of sand in the circle's centre,
Drawn from the simple square
That gave you the inverse proportions

Could give you the circle at all.
Or if the circle was somehow sustained,
Held in check by counterbrace
Of cosine, sine and the cosecant

And if the wire of thought as you thought it
Wraps round your neck or you walk it:
A tightrope to where and to whom?
And if you were the greenest grass

Wouldn't you wither? The greatest bay,
Spreading its leaves over pasture?
The craggiest stone,
Hammered by the feather of time?

This much I've gained from my anger and envy:
Not half the half of half of the circle.
This much I've gained from my faith:
A point to stand on. To draw the world.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1994