A circle rewriting its ellipse
behaves otherwise. Its timbers
may creak, its eyelashes may think
they can flirt as they like:
it is never lost to itself.
Even today its horse will
feel the spurs, as sharp and
as gilded as never before.
What speed; what misery.
One of those heads sent berserk
by a tear missing its eye. Liquid
snow, briefly foaming, only to
snuff it in scree.
