We always try to dodge the wheel, inevitably moving towards entanglement beyond it. We wander farther from the circle only to meet these lonely eyes. Somehow the inventions seem unavoidable, so much time chartered to vision. That lapsed baptismal, a solitary horn flying through the densest meshes and deepest nights. That subtle sustain that parts way with all rhythm, even the melody finally pausing for a breath. Learning of those distant feats from the way the world parts and tenses. Learning of this dream in the telling time it takes to finally sleep.
It begins with the sudden something before the long listing questions, the spray before knowing of the sea. Some sort of choice, some sort of trap-- that sickening exclamation of blood spattering upon broken bone, that fall towards such vast heights. The radio playing from some faraway window, some crackled lapse of decorum, whispers that can walk through walls and steal away rabbits. The face plain fact of that abrupt ice biting at the air, something close and horrifying. We always look, whatever the eventual reason.
There is some last and furthest shore. There is always in some sense an ending with-in reach. Some brush of shameless fingers, some grace of flesh and heat. We spin and spiral, shifting in the seats of our drafty old souls. Always either adrift or ready to the rescue, we play whether there is a game to be had. The road so certain because it is in the way we are written. Every objection worn away, the work of certainty always agreeing with itself. The wheel always turning somewhere just the same.