Little Storm

		Imagine a straight edge
			that measures the passion of music.
				A precise metric with music in a can.
			Calibrate the metric, to infinite precision
		trap the asymptote of art in a jar.

		Take the intangible from the infinite metric
			pick it apart into things you can touch.
				Then put it back together again
					gears intermesh into new born ghosts
				like seeing a old friend from long ago
			in a strange town where miracles grow.

		This is a resting zone
			a brief visit
				then disperse and go.

						***

		Look at the eye of the milky way
			stars melting like a pale of water
		spinning with precision about the centroid eye
			gravity instantly binding them together.

						***

		See the wonder of the bending of light
			shaping circles and swirls of water drops.
		Lines of telegraph wires curled in quadratic curves.
			Look down a cliff at the river side
				raging fire of thermonuclear splendor
					rushes underneath.

						***

		A man is a star in a galaxy so large
			its high speed motion appears stationary.
				Twenty two dimensions curled up in a string.
			Flying through space-time on a geodesic path
		is an ant on an apple following a straight line.

						***

		Suddenly, you pull yourself right side up,
			once again you walk on solid ground,
				eat real food,
					think in a way
						where one plus one equals two,
							and eight pints make a gallon.
	
				
						***

		We are an island
			a piece in a puzzle
				a harmony swallowed in a sea of fire
					fugitive atoms drifting in space
			like a washing machine full of drowning cloths
					lost in confusion of agitated water.
						In the middle stands the agitator
							tall and solid
						like a light house in the fog
					it never falls.