I keep turning around this misfortune, this troubled illusion I call myself, when I could be turning around you, the giver of blessings, origin and presence.
My chest is a grave that you have made into a rose garden. What goes in the grave? What fits in that two-by-two-by-seven?
Not soul. Soul cannot be contained in the sky. I turn around God. I have become a mirror, yet for these few days I turn around a piece of white wool.
If I were a rose in this spring, I would change into a hundred rosebushes.
I turn around this frustrated body, tethered in a barn of words, when I could be free in the infinite pasture. Free, why do I keep turning as though fastened to a pole?