It’s quitting time, at six o’clock.
A perfect axis, from the bottom to the top.
Major or Minor there is no distinction,
‘cause the focii have merged into one pointy dot.
At the center of the circular clock.

No focal length.
That’s how I feel.
No focal Strength.

I’m just waiting for the hands to form that sweet diameter.
Dear god it’s only Twenty-Three past Four!

I’m feeling Circular!
No focal length.
I’m feeling Circular!
No focal strength.