She stitches the night, being careful to avoid
the edges, if there are any. Her thread twirls,
weaving in and out of the nothing,
a beautiful disaster of patterns and angles.
She'll stop never, quilt for ever, for days?
Does time exist before its discovery?

In the disorder is the seed of discovery.
Yet all she knows is a void,
a space. She pauses, dazed.
The needle falls. The quilt whirls
downwards, upwards, tangles
inwards. How is direction determined without- Everything

is nothing, the quilt is anything.
Was it her discovery
Or were they a gift from the angels
No matter. Everything is done for, void
in infinite darkness, infinite swirls —
She'll lie here in this daze as

The quilt drifts for weeks, for days
as she blocks out everything, thinking anything:
Heat, blazes, stars which seem to whirl
in their unsung ways. And discovery
seems tangible in this void
of outer space and inner space. Angles

may exist but angels
do not, she knows, dazed
no longer. There is no void
she cannot fill. She creates nothing,
she creates everything to be discovered
in this now blank space. Swirls

of light are born in the whirls
of the night. She measures the angles,
for she is the seed of discovery,
the blossom of prosperity, the root of days.
The quilt is gone, an enrapturing nothing,
to be captured, for another's void.

She hurls the thread. It travels for days,
Someone else's angels take the nothing,
Someday: a discovery of some thing, something to avoid.