[the patterns of fur, just around the nose
or the way the one blue brick brushes up towards the heavens
while one tall parsley plant pushes strong through the blinds]
reading, on yellowed pages, how Emerson believes in circles
yet it seems to us, young, impatient, only one line
we’re forced to follow straight
like accountants in green visors squinting
patiently close
while the numbers so dutifully march.
we’ll realize sometime, later, that lines never end,
and some, if they start over again, mean Emerson
may have known better all along.
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