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?