Dimensions

The green sweat bee hovers above my knee,
focusing my attention, and time slows down.
The bee lights and I bring the camera in
for an extreme close-up right in its face.
Now sharpening in the monitor is a startling
wilderness of precise order:
bristling mouth parts in jeweled movement,
thousand-eyed awareness,
a feisty life-force alien
to its puniness.
My single sad outsized inquisitive lens
cannot stare down
that stretching, swelling territory of iridescent
eyes between eyes between eyes forever.
The camera blinks.
The bee lifts, flies, vanishes.

It’s the same shock on a clear Kansas night
unwittingly to step out into the Milky Way Galaxy
of stars between stars between stars forever smeared
in inconceivable magnificence across the bright sky.
And I with my two dull inquisitive eyes
washed gray in that dizzy immensity
drop what is in my hands, bow backward and sway under
so many stars, so many eyes,
so narrow a slice of forever for me
to blink at it turning its back as it recedes
never to return from its expanding
rush to the end of the universe
as time slows down.

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About Greg Bryant

I teach writing and literature at Highland Community College in northeast Kansas.
This entry was posted in poems. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Dimensions

  1. bryon says:

    As you planned, I very much enjoy the symmetry between the infinitesimal and the infinite, between the camera lens blinking and your eyes blinking. You’ve really connected the ends of the scale of existence.

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