“Turning and turning” —a gyre drags me.
From Fountains of Great Deep afire, bursts sea.
A beast; a Charybdis; a name: Blasphemy.
Night Unoriginal, thus anarchy?
A forest of fire-purged identity,
In bedding of burning leaves, detritus— See:
Amoebas in love leaping erratically.
Their cells’ riot quells, forming one from many.
Vision virulent— Spiritus Mundi:
A rose blooming backward while water upstreams;
The best are impassioned in their apathy;
And things fall apart in reverse: interweave.
I stand in the light of a last setting sun,
And all in the dark will, enwombed, become one.