Far is relative to center
the mid-hole
from which we pivot
against the magnet that repels us.
Hang on-
filaments frayed figure eights,
the vapor traced apparitions
by degrees, the skin tightens.
Drawn toward
warm is closing in on sought,
locating by looking, two palms burn
like wicks awash in golden light.
Where were we? Trajectory fell
plane flat, or rock bottoms held on,
we know what happens
when we touch the spinning Top.
Painting by Émile Vernon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
No comments:
Post a Comment