LIX

The terrestrial sphere of love
that lagged below, turns round
and round without stopping a second,
and we are condemned to suffer,
as a centre, its rotation.

Motionless Pacific, glass, pregnant
with every possibility.
Cold Andes, inhumanable, pure.
Perhaps. Perhaps.

The sphere spins on the flint of time,
and sharpens,
sharpens till it wants to lose itself;
it spins forging, before the deserted flanks,
that point so frighteningly known,
because it has gestated, turn
and turn again,
the familiar little corral.

Centrifugal it goes yes, yes,
Yes,
yes, yes, yes, yes: NO!
And I withdraw till blue, and retreating
grow hard, until I clutch my soul!