In cloaks of words I wrap myself against the weather
Storms I conjured up as punishment.
Hands full of swords thrusting up out of the earth
The round route I take. Gazelles return again
To the brink, to drink. And me? To think.
So I skirt mans burning fire, hyena lurking
Laughing in the dark. A great arc I make
Like a dim sun at the end of his leash
Scribing the day across the sky, an arc says I
The circle thus described, entrenched and worn
Like of oxen feet around the capstan of a mill
With no river.
Oh those lips, divine! So sweet, they speak
Own wondrous sound, so full, so round
Obscuring sharp teeth, and an opening down,
Sinkhole, cavern. dark, digesting
The rim road at crater lake
Rises and falls as it roams round
The deep cold water where the wizard rises
Two legs, like a man
One on rock, the other sand
Not lost in donne’s conceit
The scriven circle is concrete
Five hundred miles a race is run
Around and around defined route
Fuel and oil and tires
Burned and worn in frantic motion
To get back to the beginning.
The happy dog runs round
The standing, stoic cat.
The moon, adoringly looks
At earths changing face
Watching the shadows play
With her endless turning
Cinder cones and ashen plumes
I range around my course
Blasted from the heat within
Fearing the reentry burn
Below, bright orange glow
Majestic Molten magma .
The lure fascination
The hook, conflagration
Toying with the event horizon
The commitment. Beyond that, there is no knowing
Beyond that, there is