“Turning and turning” —a gyre drags me.
From Fountains of Nice Deep afire, bursts sea.
A beast; a Charybdis; a reputation: Blasphemy.
Evening Unoriginal, thus anarchy?
A forest of fire-purged id,
In bedding of burning leaves, detritus— See:
Amoebas in love leaping erratically.
Their cells’ riot quells, forming one from many.
Imaginative and prescient virulent— Spiritus Mundi:
A rose blooming backward whereas water upstreams;
The perfect are impassioned of their apathy;
And issues crumble in reverse: interweave.
I stand within the mild of a final setting solar,
And all at the hours of darkness will, enwombed, change into one.