Round

Round     by  Russell Edson

      Where there is no shape there is round.  Round has no shape; no more than a raindrop or a human tear . . .

       And though the organs that focus the world are round, we have never been happy with roundness; how it allows no man to rest.  For in roundness there is no place to stop, since all places in roundness are the same.

     Thus the itch to square something.  To make a box.  To find proportion in a golden mean . . .

"Round" is found in The Tormented Mirror (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2001).  This blog's posting for June 9, 2011, features another of Edson's prose poems.