into a polisher's bucket
I thought the world was immortal
and my life the key
such thoughts a rag can think
and while I am swirled around
in waxy suds
and taken on a tour of the stars
on the sides of my bucket
weight is descending to dance
on my disintegrating fibers
so let it be music
let it be the crest of a careless day
let it be a swing that wraps
around the pole
without losing its passenger
a caught criminal with fancy
spiritual ideas
shrugging off the storm-carved mountains
and the senseless sun
lips laughing at the center of nothing
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