Points and Lines

Instants in the quiet, small sharp stars,
   Pierce my spirit with a thrust whose speed
   Baffles even the grasp of time.
   Oh that I might reflect them
   As swiftly, as keenly as they shine.
   But I am a pool of waters, summer-still,
   And the stars are mirrored across me;
   Those stabbing points of the sky
   Turned to a thread of shaken silver,
   A long fine thread.
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