Gears begin to turn, pinwheels start, dizzy skirts whirl, do-si-do.
Circulate, clap, do-si-do.
The summer fans hum, feet step and turn, roses in the sun, do-si-do.
Slide through, clap, do-si-do.
Windmills grind, arms bridge and rise, bowing eyes, do-si-do.
Swing through, clap, do-si-do.
Beaters making dough, banners in a sky, hands pirouetting, do-si-do.
Face right, clap, do-si-do.
A gradual smile, stumbling move, furtive glance, do-si-do.
Face left, clap, do-si-do.
Even if nothing really matters–
and nothing endures–
and nothing counts.
Even when nobody cares–
and nobody knows–
and none remember.
Even when a thousand mouths snicker,
pummel with scorn.
Even at life’s end, twisted with regret,
thinking I might have–
could have–should have–
Even though a world becomes dust,
I did a few things
I felt were good.
A writer with pen must write infinity.
Must dot that first i.
Must steady the hand.
Now to descend.
Confusions of essence produce absurd jots.
And ink must be elegant.
Steady that hand.
A tiny dot, uncertain, of a sudden.