Whirling Dust

This inescapable hollow
around which all things spin,
the long tunnel, its end
hidden by a curve,
like an Escher construct—

One wakes to escape the dreams,
then sleeps to escape the wake,
an eye that cannot close
its dark, decentering cyclone—
its inner witness to violent rush,
past and present, whirling dust,
bound to settle with terrible staring.

Just as it  did in earlier times,
resting on chairs
of emperors and pharaohs,
each throne or stoop
of human history.

It will settle again,
a hazy film
masking our mirrors,
but no—
we’ll blow it off—

into the air.



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