That spinning wheel on the last day
of January draws to it foxfire and
embers, the trails of stars,
the hungry desires
of the last of
our blood,
the
last few
who hear
the muted rage
of ancestors smothered
under the crushing weight
of the parasitic machine.
The wheel spins on without us,
as natural as the tides, as
natural as the shifting
balance of air
currents
and tectonic
plates, as natural
as the expanding universe.
Nature, God, the old gods, ideas,
energy, first causes,
an endgame
we
cannot see.
The wheel
will draw us with it.
If we let go, if we listen.
The machine cannot stop it.
The machine cannot stop it.
They are death dealers, they are inertia.
The wheel is the creator.
The wheel is life, perpetual life.
The wheel spins on, taking winter
with it, taking us with it.
If we open our eyes,
if we look beyond,
if we lift our heads,
if we lift our voices.
The wheel spins on, within us.
January 31, 2025
