I’ve seen the gyre and pivot
around the grain uncurled,
still- reversal and stagnation-
(and as the water swirls)

The contemplation makes its way,
all coy and taciturn,
into a rolling, restless gob
that smolders as it burns.

As leafed through- which is page on page-
then little more is left to do,
than humor – pander – orchestrate
these words that I’ve warmed to.