Infinity

Somewhere along the line,

the big zero of time

was twisted at the waist,

to become an eight.

An hourglass of days,

slipping slow from the top,

then fast below the belt.

Is it providence,

or a lemniscate of fate?

I like to think of myself as verb

and not as object; chop-chop.

I wait the hours;

I empty my head of winter.

I am frightened  

by other people’s fears,

but not of the eight,

an hourglass of days.

tk/September, 2010


R.A.D. Stainforth contemplates...

* Figure Eight, 1952, by Franz Kline