We quietly tied the knot and quietly remain,
hating what keeps popping up in the mind.
I should probably tell this to you now,
but this lovely, frantic, wedding is too loud:
All of life lacks a point.
Life narrows to a point which is nothing,
the most meaningful moment of the wedding,
the moment inside the moment
when the kiss and its loyal aftermath—
did you miss the point?
The point’s location, a location, nothing,
a point we look for where the points stop—
or is it momentum forever?
The wedding speakers had us weeping
when they wept with nostalgic points they made
which I won’t remember exactly
except as contemplation occupying a shade.
Will you sign the guestbook, poet?
Tell us what the point is.
The point of the pyramid, a microscopic shape
magnified crudely in a model,
equivalent almost to “darling, I’m here!”
No moment can hold a sorrow so profound,
the shouting at the wedding when your sister—
the bride—and my brother—the groom—disappear,
smiling inside the shouting sound.