Thursday, August 2, 2007


Like the showman, trying to keep
The flat plates spinning on their poles,
The Great Magician starts to whirl
The orbs around the golden sphere.
Some go fast and some are large,
While some are clear as drops of sand.
But all whizz round the darkened stage
Attached by some elusive thread,
Reflected only in the light
That reaches not the farthest edge.
There’s no applause, the stallas are bare,
A wondrous game of solitaire.

God’s executive toy.

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