Compass

At first we proved ourselves to be 
against the rule of youthful blood,
then disillusioned grew to see 
a comparable geometry. 

When stars at night pinprick the void 
some see fair beast, some trapezoid; 
the moon, dissected, arcs its course, 
proof of surcease, caught asteroid. 

The sand nor oceans blend to mud, 
pass on their planes: infinity...
or withered tree -- and yet the bud! 
despite frail bark and failing wood. 

And so an annual gone past 
we see that nothing here can last, 
not love, not hate, no coordinate --
all circle back, redrawn, surpassed.