The Point of the Point

There was no space before there was a point in it
and if there was a point
its radial expansion toward the sphere
was there
too.

First there was a sphere
or something like
a sphere—

all the possibilities
nicely coiled
in its rapture—

the eyes of cats the shapes of worlds the vicious
cyclicities all
convened in that possibility
of possibility.

The point
of the point
of return—

the inherent divisibility within
the undivided
the course
of space
in that which took place
nowhere—

where’s time
in this story?

Coiled in the ruby’s asterism
the smoke snake going up from the gem of now
the nasty geni hovering
spoiling speech
from the site of its own unfolding
the snake that coils the world
the dignity
the menace

the fangs of aeonic monstrosity
the python winding the torso
of the human form asserting the form of the world

beyond the cracker thinkers and the characteristics
of which the wise seem so redolent

contracted inside the very measure of apparency
there is a measure
there is no measure

why is there always another commentary, another torment
turning the real

the beauties of surface glittering hideous monstrous

the call to adjustment

the yearning for the more that is minimal and the small that o’er hurdles the tallest
reaches the light in the grim the spasm of satisfaction the itch
scratched
in the groin of extremity

from inside the cloud of too much of everything this itching looking
dark within for the path to simplicity once more

there
in the dawn wind
on the frosted window plate
where the sun strikes up ever glorious
as if the subsequent had never spoiled
as if there had never been a day
the spinning thing come round another time all new all over
the primordial spheroid a whirligig in nothing

the ever unreadable sociality and oblivion released
by the gestures of recall