The dancing music
of temple blood,
The tempo of broken kicked leaves,
Elliptical thought unslowed,
Hands barely making his sleeves.
His hair flung out and fists in orbit,
He spins around an apex in the sky.
A million miles away in his centre,
The blur of the world in his eye.
But from out the
maddening spiral
Appears he the power of day.
Beneath his feet turns the world obedient.
That such vastness should recognise play,
And adjust from the laws without chance,
To this princling’s excellent dance.
Copyright © Jason
Horsler
12/09/96
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