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Philosophic
in its complex, ovoid emptiness,
a skillful pundit coined it as a sort
of stopgap doorstop for those
quaint equations
Romans never
dreamt of. In form completely clever
and discrete—a mirror come unsilvered,
loose watch face without the works,
a hollowed globe
from tip to toe
unbroken, it evades the grappling
hooks of mass, tilts the thin rim of no thing,
remains embryonic sum,
non-cogito.
