Framing Space

t rasa

Giving weight to blade,
an aromatic curl arcs
from cedar planed to join
philosophic changes in a line.

Forgetting from which side
of infinity I took the kerf,
I cut and cut to build a whole
as Pythagoras insists I might.

Reductionist’s knives
snik shavings so damned thin
they’re nearly fit for Occam’s bin
as space is hewn from space.

Four limbs wed in eyeball-perfect
portrait shape, yet still a cleft
so wide a tachyon could enter
and dance in drunken ambits.

I recalculate the angles,
strop laser sharpened blades
but ancient Zeno rasps
he’d sooner take a bus around
these roughly mitered joins.

Prometheus scorns this lack of rigor,
points a pregnant finger at my eye,
cocks and shoots dry lightning
which with luck but singed my psyche.

I shave more cedar, making space
to subtract from space enclosed
in space in another covert try
to verge the heart with mind.