Tuesday, November 11, 2008


the man I spoke with could be seen neither in silhouette nor in the round but only in rounding ... in turning round in space and in time ... now a swaddled newborn in his first day on the planet ... now an old man buckled at the knee and forced to bow by a coursing weakness throughout ... made to genuflect one last time before he fell ... now a zygote now a foetus ... now a spark now a dry tinder kindling ... a flame a flare a sputter a dark ... between that dark and the first dawn wrapping its one arm round to meet the other I slid a blade razor sharp one green blade from the morning's lawn the dew from the sprinkler still fresh upon it ... between the dark and that first jump of life ... to stab with the tip the center of the wheel to stop its spinning ... to pick the man up whole turn him up and turn him down ... there on the line from my one eye to the other to measure and to judge him ... such at least I intended but when the tip of the blade touched the center it was I that went spinning round through his life from one end to the other ... it was I that looked up the cone from the pit at the center ... it was my face that met his ... my shame now to wonder

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