The wheel turns with a whirr, delivering
Incarnate souls to places and purposes,
Far beyond the familiar flowerbeds, sometimes;
And just across the 10-step turn at others.
To move, the wheel turns, brother to the cigarette,
Moving mornings by smoky embers, horizontal,
Precarious in its defiance of the early breeze,
High and perched on ebonized lips.
The rides are quick, leaving the blood
Adrenalin-spiked and high,
Just before the final crash that ends it all,
The turning of the wheel and fetal buds.
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