the music of the spheres





absorbed in   the one

                 the  other is perish and 

  persists as it was when it was

            born   again when nothing becomes

                        because there is nothing more

                        we abhor 

              than  absence 

            and so we


the wheel turns creaks and the clock marks

     silence in its  distance 

                            belonging to us by where we are

     the center is  real

so we feel

so we feel

            it turns with turning

so we feel

so we feel for

ever the center 

is  in its infinite self

beyond what a thing can be

being everywhere it does not turn

being    everywhere as it is

it is the nothing

upon which everything   hinges 


absorbed in  the speed

the momentum is its building

and slowing  signals cause remark


the sphere falls and is its whole self falling

                                         though falling  is not the sphere 

  identity is itself and so it is its own  building

                                                                                    save should 

                                                                                             it stop

                                                                                 it fills with a melancholy weight

                                                                                              dragging is the uncertainty 

of failing to be what it is

                so the nature of pausing

                            comes full its circle    





absorbed in itself

                     staving off

the stave closes upon its own ends

rushing down to find itself

 it found it was as far away as it could be

and so it knew it was always where it was

and knowing where you are

is knowing that you can be