A spin around the house.
I rise from the table starting to whirl, nowhere to go.
Cinnamon peach cake lumped in my cheek.
My arms streaked out to my children each
clutching a blown blue glass half filled with milk, moon
crescents on each upper lip.
Stars, I must have stars.
And out I swirl immediate master of my need.
Only my eyes lighting my body's windy way
to a familiar pine in its real place
at the first slope of the solid hill.
Everything spins in its chosen space, I will it so.
A stars held silence parlors my cinnamon lips.
And my arms, each elbow galaxy circle it all in.
What shall I do with it?
I have nowhere to go.
The spectral pine belongs where it is.
My children whirl with the house beyond my wrist.
Moonlit chimney smoke curls a comet's tail.
Nothing is missing.
It is all absolutely there.
I have food enough in my cheek to last the rushing starlight
through.
As pale grass choirs in its remembered
sleep where Ursa the bear leapt home.
And the dipper ladled its milk and pointed tilting North.
And there, the North Star flares above my pine,
above my house with nothing to do but return circling my arms.
Whirling in my eyes, which now are sons,
and our gods in their chosen room,
each lifting a blue glass with a table spins.
And their splurge laughter gathers turning white.