Those of mathematic inclination draw an equation
and add a degree to a plotted angle,
or add perhaps another line to an existing
form in the hopes of moving closer to the truth
that lies inside a right wrought compass turn
upon white fibers pressed into adherence.
Their pondering and pontification on point to point
-though sketched in air – remains crosshatched
by each line and angle added anew through
successive generations as they grasp the baton in
the books, or maybe it is the birds from Plato’s apiary.
On degrees of home and distances
seems to be a subject beyond a paltry
physical experience, and yet I can plot
my course to this present point from east to west
and back again, through mother, father, sister,
brother, and all the years that fell along the way
while it is you that still remain the centered foot
of things to things from things.