What was it? That drowning word
or equation
smothered in its incantation.
In stillest frenzy
voice stumbles numbers tumble
into zero.
Burning in that sun collapsing.
Incredible masses,
folding, folding.
Saturn melts inside its rings
upon a wrinkled blanket.
Devouring its greatest digits,
the Cosmic Centipede wraps itself
around a planet, a world, a perception.
A placeless point on a lineless plain,
folding, folding,
wrapped and wrinkled.
With all this in mind,
we stray through space,
we fold in place.