the round and circling spiral pathways of the dance of the mystic math:
star-footed, swine-eyed, ten-tined we go; silver our talons,
rainbowed the flash of our scales. you gyre above my little wren’s gyre,
above the muscled serpent gyre of my slumbering mother.
but listen, oh listen, o rim of my wooden wheel, spoke of my hub:
conjure a while in the silent and listening east with your nut of a knot.
i swing you about like a star like a sun in the breadth of my sky
at the circling edge of my self! i deceive myself! i lie dying, i die lying!
i bear my lie like a flower. my lie i bear like a fruit and my death
like a seed. it is the tree-egg, the serpent-seed of self. into my heavy,
hidden heart go the deep nerves of feeling, feeding like tree roots. i find
my virtuous light, my truth, my lifeful of deaths, in the soil in darkness there.
in the knot of my serpent-muscle heart i feel. in my forest brain i know.
i count the selves of my universes in faces as many-eyed and -tongued
as mine. i am them. they are me. my fearful flinch is theirs,
their yearning fingertips of near perception mine.