At the known world's all too finite end,

On the highest floor's remotest bend,

Our room spells curtains for infinity 

And for life itself in Fifteen Twenty-Three.


A sign warns in the narrowed hall

That, go farther, and you'll hall

Like Magellan's clipper ship

Down the ocean's final dip:


Nothing in the land more high 

Than this, save sky,

Although breezes even funnel

Through a nearby ventilation tunnel;


Here Einstein, Planck, and no doubt Quine

Watch the earth and air entwine,

Although the room card doesn't mention

Where you find the fourth dimension,


Neverless the elements of space and spec'd

And mitred by the architect,

His railroad terminal design

Positively borderline,


A structure living on the rum

Of high-rise life and limb,

Whose endless chambers antecede 

Any further housing need, 


The ne plus ultra of 

Money, life, and love,

Beyond which no mere man

Has any right to plan,


Lest our interference ruin its

Paradise of rationed units,

The measured one-stop shop

Of multiplicity's small whistle shop.


The weight of being's arabesque

Rivets on our corner desk -

The totality of its stars

Now lightbulbs in the minibars,


The ends of meaning in our mirror,

The dusk itself grown finally clearer,

Flooding on a window seat

Where time and nothingness can meet,


The contracted panorama

Of the ceiling's culminating drama, 

The last legs of the dying day

In the bedroom no cliché,


On the edge where gods consort,

The very model of the last resort -

Even glass here tints one way:

Light comes in and plans to stay


Forever, a black hole

Spongeing up the global soul,

Looking out the darkling panes

Beyond which nothing else remains,


Like a bumper on a railroad track

Behind which empty spaces stack,

The cutoff point where what will be

Happens here exclusively,


A rather tacky interface

On the lip of timeshare space,

Where administrative creatures

Frolic in the water features,


The sum of universal limits

Provided by our hosts the Marriotts,

The world series' final score

Thoughtfully on our prison door,


The crowning glory of all places,

The high point of our frail oasis,

Playing with the door lock's tumblers

By running out of primal numbers.