The point, in mathematics, is an indication of a place,
A thing of no dimension, no extension, merely a mention
That it is here we must pay attention.
This dot of spot must gain prominence of occasion
Through persuasion of particular occurrence of event.
A lightning bolt to jolt, to mine significance from intent.
Lives are lines inscribed on time and space that cross and tangle
Merging, transgressing, configuring multitudes of possibilities.
A he or she, a this or that, an undefinable sensation of the vaguest intimation
Can correlate direction, connect and swerve the azimuth location,
Raise or lower elevation to a wide or minor angle
And crash or salvage fragile hopes from tentativities of integration.
An unfamiliar taste or smell. A scream, perhaps a yell, a cry of surprise
Can seize the concentration, blind attention, corrupt surmise
And thereby a universe becomes alternate exploding fate
So any frantic switch to correct becomes too late.
It is this infinitesimal moment in time, this here that flashes now
Wherein history and destiny arrives to grant us how,
Then vaporizes, exits to leave behind destructions of hope and mind.