poem 012

The line’s end

Trying to find the end of places,
crisp-eyed, out running from stilled standing,
finding ends within cluttered traces
across papered spaces, mirrored looks
over edges, cuttings, knife-edged stable landing.

Because lines seen, divide and multiply,
I cannot understand that my eyes see an end,
because lines exist to hold the sides they imply
whatever surface or volume over which they tend;
we all look to find some standing reply
some reliant line up which our backs ascend.

Then standing, we walk a path, crossing lines we do not see.
Feeling our movement progress – like dancing through a fill
which emotion calm-in-place, yet creating questions for free . . .
................free, free, freedom looks at infinity,
................and freely balks losing with feeble nerve, it’s will.

Like a wall, at its opening, seeing the same wall; another
..............hole and glassy reflection traced over the outside tract
................understanding its many edges makes clear
the idea of outside . . . is it there or here?