How odd I am within you! Whirling mad
into another verse, another song
about the turning of the spheres. How will
I ever find an order in the chaos
that is material things? The different shapes
don't fit into each other, ratios
are not of whole numbers. In a fiction,
it wouldn't seem so weird were I to fly—
a lucid spirit—into the dark clouds
and pronounce thunder. The lazy pattern
that is my politics is of the sort
only irrational men understand.
The strangeness of the dancing verse I make
is inexplicably forgettable.
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