It must
have been
something
like a
balancing
act,
walking on
a floating trunk
keeping the
object rolling.
To birl.
An intake
swirl.
Do you call
this dance?
Fine! … But!
It’s rather
my thoughts
roaming the
streets in a drunken walk.
A mechanics?
Could be! …
But!
It’s rather
my feet
tiptoeing on
muddy park lanes.
So before
we go into pipes and valves
Shall we
sweep leaves on
clay ground
lanes or
collect pine
needles on
a
cobblestone road?
Despite,
A whirling
wind has
knocked
down my thoughts.
My body is still
birling endlessly.
-
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