in a night, where the moon and the ragged star
give way to bell chimes of a chinese
horoscope, and the knuckle crunch
of neighbour's fences rattle,
in name of the wind made craft,
one the bullion among the million,
the acre of earth among the harvested sized-up,
too the tooth-pulling ardency,
whether russia or a satellite, beyond the iron grip,
in the richly wed grip of lost value of gold,
kept secret for the soviet sway,
to keep iron the soviet gold, at a loss
for a gain... each to his cold...
quo vadis? qua vecto, vecto non locus,
circus etc.
(where are you going?
as going, there's no place of origin
to return to, circling on & on).