issue 32 > poetry > slonimsky

These circling hawks pay homage to the round,
as good a shape as any to call home;
a spiral's whirl, astronomers have found,
suggests Big Bang's first tendency. No roam
or flex: quite uniform. And still such spin's
in galaxies and falling leaves, the birds
who coast along blue air. And in the sea:
observe the curves of waves, black circling fins.


A breeze kicks up and here, just where we'll ford,
a ripple turns to spiral, two, then three,
and we're impressed with how the First persists --
in whorls on fingertips -- as we join hands
to cross. Our merging glances are a kind of bliss.


What close attention all the world demands.






Also by Lee Slonimsky:

After Image