POINTS AND LINES

Instants in the quiet, small sharp stars,

Pierce my spirit with a thrust whose speed

Baffles even the grasp of time.

Oh that I might reflect them

As swiftly, as keenly as they shine.

But I am a pool of waters, summer-still,

And the stars are mirrored across me;

Those stabbing points of the sky

Turned to a thread of shaken silver,

A long fine thread.