The Fourth Real Transition--Circles

when I am looking for circles because they make
inconsequential sense the façade of words hanging in the pretty air because
we can make it winter indoors and there are only a few months while out of doors the bats erratically making omens and prophets of standing on the
grass watching overhead: there is no such thing

as objective symbolism everything is blue and glass everything is as ephemeral as blue and glass jarring the dark underfoot (is it true that if you stand a dog on the mirror it will fall over from the fright of being suspended over no
thing?) and I am searching for circles overhead the wings of moths that are confusing the birds they have never expected to be looked back at only to fall from the bitterness of milkweed: touch is some
thing like circles and some
thing like frightened birds all at the same time. throwing a stone in an empty field when at the cusp of winter I have found my way home. this would be a story of him tho' not me searching for my circles or for the places where poetic blackbirds stretch raven colored their wings. he is pretty blue glass and he is when the older men come inside and in a sudden whisk of egg white words I am saying "Gutten Tag!" because
it is exciting to come home it really is or to find out the forest paths are not paths but radii that the trees can be measured in increments on angles backwards towards the leafy fringe of a circular wood that to be coming you must have been going and that he is going he must at one time be returning. there are
place twice and it is summer. it is not pretty or the reflective inside of behind a mirror it is dusky and the stagnant underside of stilled water which had been as beautiful as an Italian archangel weeping for spring. see? see however long or wide or sharpened corners (where to duck heads and hear words there are tiny perforations all over) it may be rounded out by old photographs or even
the way I looped the underside of a y. an l. and all the letters were formed circular then. we are crafting statuary for the gardens that do not exist we are melding iron to surround the more crucial landmarks we are making colored clay to map out a city that we have never been and will never see together because perhaps when you had come your were truly returning and now there is a new place for you to go and no other place in which you are to return:

if there was
an old fallen down wall in my backyard or a rotted statue without its lovingly fashioned face turned back to weather then I could hang out my sun sickened words to dry and it would be all right if every
day was cloudy (not raining—raining would be an absolute) and the men spoke in strange accents that only I could understand but our only memorials is a gravestone I never see and part of a wooden fence that has fallen and all the ragged flowers are strewing in from the empty house next door.

circles are the tide pool by an English sea that is only English because it is overcast. water is best for finding the returning a point that is clay and between. best of all; a last drop falling in the paper cup while the man I can only understand prods at his meat tastelessly and asks in grandfather's language "how many times shall the ripples tell you fortunes are not found in drinking glasses?" and I tell him in my own language (which is grandfather's and my own)
"how many
times shall I be told
that there are fortunes at
all?"

tarot cards would work better
if it were only shapes and death could be a line because there is no end nor any beginning and we could all be floating 'round dead or at some point on the plane of death and not even know it because a line is unknowing. and love could be a semicircle because there would be a beginning and there would be a peak and then a rounded way of falling backwards to the starting point. and if there were a card for immortality it would be a square because life is corners and everlasting life would have exactly four corners
but the best of future is a circle.
some
one from Germany is throwing a rock into the Elbe and suddenly it has rushed forward to destroy all the art museums and cathedrals in Dresden. Old Prague has already been submerged in the flowing pastels draped from Rembrandts left in the basements

water
flows best in a circle. life pretty glass when thrown at the sky a stone left from some
one's statue and he
can be returning right now only
the circle is dented as the bird
catches a milkweed moth

mid-flight