A Line

Here’s a conundrum:
a point lacks dimension,
yet two points,
each ambit-free,
rubbing against each other,
cuddling for warmth,
not superimposed,
those form a line
and that line has length—
­no breadth or height,
width or depth—
starting at one point,
ending at the other,
and with the definition
of that line,
a dimension exists,
yet only one.

Aside from length,
the line owns
no other space;
it is not
a thin slip of tape
reeling off a roll;
admired from its side,
it presents no wall,
no impediment to a
submicroscopic man on a
determined orthogonal path
straight at the line’s true course;
it is not a skinny cylinder,
a nanotube between two
pointillistic plugs popped in each end;
these faint possibilities
possess dimensions
far beyond the
slight simplicity
of the line
drawn however briefly
in your mind’s eye
between two points,
neither occupying
anything at all.

We imagine a line
flat or erect or
extending into an
imaginary plane and
away from us
towards other places,
other worlds beyond,
or maybe at a tilt
signifying a trend,
an implication of movement
up or down, in or out,
but a line
lies between
two imaginary space-free
specks anywhere in the vastness
of all-space, all-time
demarcating not just what
lies on this side
or the other
but up and down and around it
a cylinder of possibilities
which itself reaches out
beyond the walls of
anything we will ever see
or know.

Finite

Recreate