A golden rectangle—with a width-to-length ratio of 1.618

                                                       that’s known as the golden mean—can be divided into an

                                                       infinite number of smaller and smaller golden rectangles. The

                                                       diagonals of all the rectangles converge at a point called “the

                                                       eye of God.”

How horrible to trap

            the eye of God

inside a golden rectangle—a square

plus a classically comely add-on—spiraling

into successively smaller treasure chests

            that disappear into God’s eye, that is,

infinity, a treasure that’s never paid

the rent, bandaged a wound, or supervised

a sparrow.

            On paper, infinity looks cramped,

as is any theory in the soul’s dark night,

when I might wander my living quarters searching

for a magic pill.

            Maybe the rectangles

            hatch at the eye of God, and uncoil into

larger and larger rooms, plots, public plazas

where public harangues

            set red-cap crowds aboil,

big-box stores, states with right-angle frontiers,

spacious closed systems and their many closets.

So what does golden mean? Spare me what’s on

            paper.

             Let a better eye wink at me.

Tonight my bathroom window frames the moon.

            I’ve a notion

                        to tilt back

                                    my head

                                                and howl.