Only the heated pins of questioning
Can melt this wax figured spin
That denies the state we’re in.
Muting the padded batteries of flattery
To begin the ritual Voudoun dance
Of trance to Legba’s altered flags.
Raise them high on the air of denial!
Someone’s,
been cranking the handle
turning the gears of my day.
Mustering iron-like crunch of persistence
to tilt the balance of who I am.
They’ve been winding up the clock
with hands that circle the hours of my ways,
leveraging dedication with obligation,
and burdening my arms with plans to catch
the spinning cogs of responsibility.
I’ve been resisting the pull of these loaded wheels,
slipping the notches - slowing the steel pull of their load,
vaguely dodging my interlocked dependence on normality.
All this just to spy between twain and spite of grind -
straining to catch a fleeting glance of a silvered albatross,
cutting through the soaring blue above the machine.
That, is the beautiful distraction of you.
A fishball is
rotating round
the scrapes of
my luncheon
but only one
winner is in the
swim.
His shoalsnap
on the turn
of hunger’s tide
jumps at the sun
through surface
shroud.
I think of us
with all the
to and fro
of being, and
our own chase
for instinct’s
ride.
But for now
it is time to go -
the wasps are
out.