London Poem: Day 67

23 October

Concentric circles spin in familiar paths;
Twirling, and twirling.
The dizzying movement thunders by
In true course, pushing up,
And leading one to ask:
What is that?
Seeing what is given,
Sight lends to taste, and
Taste to touch; it’s all familiar now.
The endless revolution buries
Itself into a narrow point
Overlooking the delicate unfurl
Into itself.
It swallows itself, and the
Knowledge of the one before;
Nothing is gained,
It is merely the natural order of things.

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In flux

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