This Small Round Mine
Jouncing amid swelling azure tides
this small round mine gyrates.
She neither beats in fitful surges,
nor retreats from repellent urges,
but, by and large, sitting fixed,
running rapids slow, slow, quick,
in such things as schemes are made of.
Her dreams to rise full fathoms five,
in stirless overtures of static drive,
weighing up six inches thick,
plumbing deep with graded stick,
shatter iron-fist bulwarks full gloved.
Bookmarked, her drifting destination
lies some way off north by west.
Yaw and pitch in smokestack grey,
to breast the tides for closing bay,
perhaps every distance diminishes,
as night curtains light extinguished,
sets dog watch by daylight saving time.
His are not plumes on ghostly stage,
no ashen fingers turn unwrote page,
trace hieroglyphs don’t paint in pasts,
nor will they break that senseless staff
or unburn logs that bind love’s rhyme.
Scented second thoughts are flakes
of soft sieved sugar onto cake,
no symmetric pattern can ever make.
This small round mine likely closes,
jaunty amid gathering swell.
How one upon the other acts,
awaits magnetic fields to attract,
will countermeasure cataracts.
This unspoken pact with sealing wax,
in abundant vein of rich motherlode,
may come together and explode.
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