The Poetic Works of Shawn Eyer
The point of the compass pierces the plane,
a central mark to firmly intend
the axis true that all around
an unbroken flow of ink will bend.
The surface welcomes the cunning steel,
Precisely the arm extends its throw.
With gentle art is inscribed the arc
first slowly, now fast, and again slow.
Finally the line to itself is joined
into an infinite, glittering band
the compass lifts and is folded away
by an invisible, eternal hand.
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