Arcs & the point called I...

As wide as the blue canopy
I etched the far arc first
Then the near arc
Smaller than my microcosm

The far arc was too far
Confounded I stood still.
The near one too close
But I never gave up the drill.

Sketching arcs like a madman
On a canvas that shifts like fog on quicksand.
Searching for that perfect point
That would mean I; perhaps only at that instant.

The arcs play among themselves
Hoping to find that illusory point.
Crisscrossing out into forever,
Building bridges to points unknown.