THEY

THEY

Kafka saw it, part tragedy, part comic. 
They pulled us off our axis
put us in immobilis, the gnawing cell
of isolation, of terror

who is there, with a hand to catch — 
to touch us —

Time slows down     
stands 
still 
the top keeps 
spinning tottering 
neither stopping nor falling 
turning in exhaustion

We knew to cut the rug
foot-deep in the middle of the sensuous world,
each moment waking the next

Whisk, whisk.  Blow.  Spin it on its head
to rest in the dark.  
Whirl, dear life, impertinent joy. 

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