From outer space, the earth is
a discrete blue globe,
the sun, a single pixel in the
widescreen version of heaven.
It’s only up close
that the world goes on forever.
Euclid loved a perfect sphere
but geometry grows older and
the orb isn’t round anymore.
Here at Ocean Beach, the length
of our stroll increases without limit
the more persistently we measure.
Stones crack recursively,
star-strewn fragments hewn into
nothing but edges, infinitely long,
The wide, white Pacific tide erodes
a sea cliff in the city,
echo eternal as a god
returning the same beautiful equation.