If the lifeline is indeed a line,
May I join the ends in perfect common,
So a close never comes to mine,
So I stay above it all in a boat that rocks the clouds,
To feel the surface shift in spring and autumn
differences, “til trailing winter ice touch the gunwale
And breathe their last with the formation of crackling sound.”
But I tune my radio to a different channel.
T’was the good, I say, as I kill the forecast.
With a circular line I may stand and outlast
The fiercest of foe.
But my price
Comes as a train comes, an awaiting burden,
For to live forever,
On my circular line,
I live in invisibility and stratification.
Forced in, locked in, seeing that ideal tulip live, marry, die.
Live, marry die.
And her hand grows from faint to fainter
Under the bursh-stroke of the artist who fails to capture her:
He took her skin for his canvas.
Beneath the ink of the poet who dreams of her:
He took her eyes for his stanzas.
the man who lives in circular,
Rocks his boat above rain and sees her live, marry, die,
In his own thoughts, he falls into the boat,
With a soundless voice and visionless thought,
And feels the earth follow the curvature of his spine,
Just as his life follows the curvature of that continuous