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.