Sunday, April 20, 2008

We circle

We cicle, work,
And work on circles
Nearly crime,
This maze of manic ills
Impeccably aligned.

Crisp beads to carry
Too many left yet
To keep the cords clean
Their tense anxious mass
Keeps tangling my hands.

Strings to pick apart and chew,
Time to tame and temper,
All those orbs to move
You shiver, tighten, pick up speed,
Unfurl and reach for fresh machines.

What will we deliver
But ragged nerves and meager green?
These spheres are squalor, let's lay them aside
Miles of skin still
Tender, blind.

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