it is not the wheel
but the center,
tugging in a spiralling pull.
yet not yet,
every element
geometric,
relating to one of the spheres.
five solid platonics
on the table where the dreidel spins,
and science tells me what i ought to value,
the foundation of morals.
moving in this space
and plane,
epochs wax and wane.
remove the illusion,
yet not yet,
in the landscape of the science
of good and evil,
balanced between peaks,
not yet not.
take the elements off the table,
naturally flowing
as chance subsides,
on the spiral
never stable.
like the science that filters through all art
and the sand that vitrified to glass,
cloudy to clear swirls,
yet not yet
galaxy set to spin,
the giant teetotum twirls.
in the taste
of that first bite of an apple,
red, green, or fuji.
three have changed the world,
eve, newton, and jobs.
what’s to be?
not yet not,
in the eye of the storm,
the sum is all the same.
take, put down,
all and nothing to blame.
oh metatron,
if my soul could visit
the house of tomorrow,
to dwell
with zohar and the youth,
not yet not,
a celestial scribe
spinning with the twelve.
the -isms and the -anities
chant magnificence,
the twelve sided vanities,
set the spin to the galaxies,
a pleasure not task,
in childlike significance,
yet not yet,
teetotum.
This a concrete poem in the shape of a spiral.
