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
the top keeps
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.