Within the Behemoth a Dulcet Turning

for Blues: It doesn’t matter which way is up by Wendy Weaver

Skin mottled, traitorous throat constricts,

drags down body’s thin dregs spiralling

like a child’s empty shoe spinning on ice.

Ensnared flesh and thought whirl

within the same circuits —

sometimes light’s slim white line,

later the frenzied-orange band quivering

round the final ring: sapphire despair.

Together they orbit their puny field

(a space of their own blind choosing)

bordered by roads never reached,

suspended within charcoal wisps.

Beneath lies the dark.

Time sputters past –

spits and stutters.

You/life she shrivels to body. You/body she

shrivels from life.

Arcs intersect and tumble the sphere

towards luminance lying beyond,

towards patches of fearless yellow.

Propelled by will’s peculiar geometry

orientations roll and right.