Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Lucy Alexander #74 Pinwheel

I watch it turn until it is nothing
the blur of turning resembles
solid, or is it a liquid film
so fine and thin and moonshaped
that it must change tides with its memory?

I am as spare as tire without
the thoughts that make me up
dreams that tweak the mind
into accepting shapes
for time to settle in.

A petal with its central thorn
so spun that beauty comes and
plays her part, falls down dead
asleep from the symmetry
one hundred years of dream

to found a happy ever after on
the unbelieving of us who ask
strange and static questions of
those who spin and spin and
never remember a thing.


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