CIRCLES
I.
As the pigeons fly in circles
around the rooftops of East Fifth Street,
streaking smudges of silver against the dark
gray of soon-rain, an old man on the sidewalk
sits on a white plastic chair and tilts
his ear towards the spiral flapping
of wings, twirling his cane around
and around as he does like a pencil,
drawing the face of a clock:
he is always there, his life circling
again, to this place.
II.
The trees fossilize years in growing rings
of skin, the orbed palm of sky presses
into the earth from where I lie in the grass,
the moon watches, that floodlight eye of starlight.
And the Earth, always orbiting towards
tomorrow, winding the threads
with each rotation like silver astral yarn,
knitting spools into the future
and creating a wreath of our loss.
Will you wear it, will you place it
on your door, will you wrap it around
your little finger?