of its surface? Though we give to the infinity of things an edge
to know them by, perhaps the edge of the sun is the reach of its heat
or its light, stretching to the ends of space, easing itself through time
backward and forward
as though in search of instruments sufficiently delicate to find it.
All knowing is death.
Again I see these things:The ridge of your spine as you lean forward
to accept the glass of wine,
that rises to your mouth at the sound of my steps
the rose-tinged light pouring in from the mountains
to outline your face
as you turn.
We do not endat the horizon of our skin
or the heat of our skin
ripples in space time
the ever expanding horizon
of this moment
clouds the universe.