Straight lines. Right angles. Symmetry.
Water has learned geometry,
stone, the split, flat flake of crystal,
tree, shrub, weed, the plane’s bisections,
to live on ends, on edges well
enough to hold the same seasons
as any soil shoots roots and seize.
And, descending through epochs, we
learn from gouged, gray walls, tilted hall
of the deep past, gauged by this stone
by stone of indifference until
disgorged, what time’s gorged itself on.