The soul, you say, is a circle.
It is in there somewhere,
pinball galumphing the pitch.
Fish-eyed hordes of pilgrims
line stretches of proscenium,
explaining the bouncing ball.

One lens, a million refractions:
eagle’s nest, pebble in water,
cozy golden drachma. Solidities.
There are starbursts in entrails
of owl, forests of equations
bristling at teacup’s bottom.

Fragment in a form of forms?
At bottom of your dayblind pit,
head longs to swim in such vitals,
shredding old maps for kindling
along the way, to where gods
cool their hooves in a deep above.