Variations on a Theme: The Wars of Something and Nothing

Blooming to death
for stasis mud puddles
gathering up the edges to focus
on one deep well.

Birthing the end smell of leaves
caught beneath an angled rock
cutting deeply
embedded miles down.
Round hands pull it out forever
creating lines that extend around the Potomac
forcing the tide’s hand
asking what she can do for
a stolid nonchalance
outfitted in the immovable.

Growing outwards in all directions,
lightless for a shaded mark
of the point
that is no point at all
but the coreless sphere
constantly shape shifting the face of an
octagon times an enneagon
of substancelessness

Nano dirt of the outside
closing in while
atmospheric trouble arouses the purple
arcs that reach further
and further yet
towards a center, a teleology to hold
the reason for the single thought.