Otherwise things continue
in bright yellow rounds.
The road tears at my throat,
I cannot see it's path,
tar-eyed I stumble,
fall, cry out,
mute and stillborn.

This is how it should be,
circles, rounds, crocus, wild,
geese south, frozen ******
ponds. Yet I am the infitnite

whirlwind at the center.
and the giant at the edge
of the universe. Still
I call, cry out: blind.

Otherwise I would leap high
hurling myself past moons
to become star: brilliant,
pulsating. The road tears at throat
yet things continue, as I revolve the orb.