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Freedom's the cry, and around that world
Whips a world that rips apart in the whipping.

Do we fly when we turn, and turn a little faster
Or do we cling to the clay, and dig a little deeper?

The world that whirls—images flit
Like starling, wink like stars.

But where's the scanning defined by the focus
Where its locus rhymes with our own? Desire!

The world is meal, fire, ground on the rock,
Splitting good grain from the wind's food.

Spring is a wound up thing enclosed and covered,
Smothered till it springs like a ball in its bounce:

Rejoices in flight, comes to the centre
That rhymes with a world at rest.


© Dan Goorevitch