A dragon and an eagle whirl around
at dusk like Sambo with his shining skin,
a whirlwind furiously void of sound
and thick as Goodness. Round and round they spin,
frustratedly unable to draw blood
for sheer futility. Why fight along
the bell curve’s crest, why kick up fuss? Ned Ludd
would only separate us. Just be strong,
parade toys, troops and hawks, spit out glad bile,
and whirl around as though this feedback loop
between us means to last forever while
the debts and hungry mouths begin to group
around our citadel of magic hope.
We who were so enlightened now must grope.
