spiral

spiral

   – george l stein

 

spiral

 

pen touches paper, a spark lites in the darkness, then there is a first point.

no breadth, no depth, no measure of will

still… it is something from which to build

and the dot persists

 

short square feet backed right up against the tracks

defines the squalid solitude that no one chooses,

not to come, to live and to die here. In the turn of time

it chooses them and the rest simply follows on

 

logic and purpose become a study in dysfunction

as soon as the cards are re-shuffled and re-dealt.

There is a turn and a change of position

a point becomes a line and a line becomes a curve that goes round and round again.

 

now the land is bare where scant refuge stood, bare but for the weeds,

a pale, cheap wheat, a pleasing illusion to the eye but barren of sustenance

everything makes sense and no sense in some context

the trick is to find the frame.

 

A seamstress thinks of love and drops her pin

and in turn the thin facade of wholeness is pricked

a lucky stroke, or a tragic ending. Spin and position, perspective.

It depends on where one stands.

 

the journey, the stumble, the light and the loss

all that had come and that was to be

ambitions and expectations dashed and naught

nights of delusion and days of future past

 

when she reassembles the pieces just so

accounts for and adjusts the lights and shadows

she smiles and seeks approval for her efforts

but the simplest of glances betrays her

 

no one knew where the line started or ended

thought that their journey was theirs to steer

but time passed in an instant, one single revolution around a single point

the pen lifts from the paper, for better, for worse. the story is cast