A micron feeling picks its way along
On the snail’s narrow, wary path,
Merely a fine point inching
In the saint’s laden stare.
The body poised on needle point
Is the mind’s dark matter
Like the cosmic lens
You see the far stars far better.
It’s paucity all out of breath.
A feather balanced on edge
Stands quivering from windmilling fall
Like a wraith on the mind’s tightrope.
The nerves keep tautening
Until they are gleaming white
Lethal like fresh slivers of glass
Chilling in the hard sunlight.
