The loops unroll,
each birthing another,
a necklace of circles,
a rosary threading
from the smallest
to the infinite.
Outward they whirl,
centrifugal,
to the rim of being,
then back,
centripetal,
to the core,
to the zero,
to the null.
On the mountain’s crest,
Right appears inverted,
through the mirror’s throat,
where the hourglass
spills time
in every direction.
Centripetal and centrifugal
occur at once:
a single gesture
of expansion and return,
an invisible yo-yo
swinging in silence.
In this pulse,
outward and inward,
departure and return,
the spiral seems to widen
without end.
Yet only our gaze moves:
to see is to fall
from the void’s crest,
to rise into it again.
Crest and skirt are one,
and the one is a point,
and the point is nothing.
