The Twelve-Spoked Wheel Flashing [antikvár]

The twelve-spoked wheel flashing A turn of the wheel, I thrust up with effort pushing, braced and sweating, then easy over down into sleep, body idle, and the sweet loamy smell of the earth, a turn of the twelve-spoked wheel flashing. I have tried to forge my life whole, round, integral as the earth spinning. I have tried to bet my values, poker played with a tarot deck, all we hope and fear and struggle for, where the white chips are the eyes of anguish, the red the coins of blood paid on the streets and the blues are all piled by the dealer. We sit round the table gambling against the house: the power hidden under the green felt, the television camera that reads your hand, the magnetic dice, the transistorized computer controlled deck that riffles with the sound of ice blowing on the wind against glass. A turn of the wheel: nothing stays. The redwinged blackbirds implode into a tree above the salt marsh one March day piping and chittering every year, but the banded pet does not return. The cherry tree begins to bear this June, a cluster