Not an exegisis
Having never read Thomas Browne's Urn Burial,
I pretend that my eyes once glanced
at its lines, found them shapely
& well turned, even if perhaps
the spiral created by its multiple voices
induces images of vertigo & a scraped sense
of destiny deflected, a/k/a
put on hold for generations
as measured by the slow descent
that freshly disturbed earth makes
when time is an image repeated
at ever expanding intervals, i.e.,
of infinitesimal, yet infinite, end points.
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