I scratch the imaginary surface
Of this spherical agglomeration
Of imaginary nothingness
A space, or repository, formed
By no more than a few deft hand-
Turns and rolling wrist gestures
I am reminded of the mathematics
Of non-Euclidean space
And of Jung's collective unconscious
Theorems always showed the miserable
Limits to my intellectual capacity
Here again I am undone
Instead to write of love and loss
Or love and joy, I engulf myself in the
Wobbly blancmange of indecipherable airs
