lxxiv.

if it spins wild, mad
and turns,

                if you turn,
your face--from the

from mine, the lights
high upon

the balcony, the whirl
of feet, in the circle

will tell you, if
corners become
        impossible

rooms where the smoke
curls high, the word drifts
down,

if you carry a knife, sunk
among the scraps, I

gather them from around
the blade--the world might
wait awhile

for us, caught in the branches
of dogwood, hanging low over
the street
                hung from this moment

or the next,

for now, if it spins, I will see you
in the black, frames the sky,

imagine, in the girders, below
the drape--just beyond the edge

of sight, this breath and the next,
for a moment--world enough

it might wait, never expected
nevertheless