we spiral into each other,
in the soil heap spoiling round us;
a curving spoor across the ground
which seems, too, axled in moving;
an horizon line a limit
and the outermost -
ships on sea?
moored?
brightly drifting stars -
and daffodils yellower than the sun -
do not ask what we have wrought
on top of all it spins, all spins,
geared up and quite cognisant,
each part its own momentum
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