Runs round and around
From the center
Where it already is.
Carrots like antennae
In the hanging ball
Twirl around the stall
In late sun
With the creak of
Something speaking
Or trying at least
To be heard.
It comes and goes
The nonchalance of being
But when it returns
The heart has prepared the journey,
Doesn't matter the road.
Hell, there aren't any
Until you decide,
Much less end.
