Circles, they say, exist with no beginning or end.
They swing around and again, tracing their own pasts.
As does every shape, I think,
Only some hang hard-lefts, or hard-rights, at sharp angles.
Triangles endure whiplash pain.
Squares rush to full-stops, to change direction.
Growing more sides, more corners, with each pass.
With a less-jarring now.
History overwritten by every orbit.
New points, fresh curves, smoothing old hairpins.
Triangles become squares, which swell into circles
Past, present, future, looping in rhythm of elegant curves.
(Wrap your arms, parenthetically, around me,
our breathing, for a moment, an aside,
enclosed, a separate thought,
within the pause of us thrumming against the silence,
and your lashes,
oh, the life and death of me, perfect commas of lashes,
the end of our sentence, so it runs on, and on, and on.)
I’ve spent a lifetime loving poets
pine and rejoice
love and wonder
savor and yearn.
One in particular knows
through and through.
The poet’s name is Long Forgotten
unlike the words.