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          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.

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