Philosophic
in its complex, ovoid emptiness,
a skillful pundit coined it as a sort
   of stopgap doorstop for those
         quaint equations

         Romans never
dreamt of. In form completely clever
and discrete—a mirror come unsilvered,
   loose watch face without the works,
         a hollowed globe
         from tip to toe
unbroken, it evades the grappling
hooks of mass, tilts the thin rim of no thing,
  remains embryonic sum,
        non-cogito.