11.13.06

Creativity
rotates on a rusty wheel,
comprehensible

only for moments
at a time, when the spin slows
to a creak, and letters

become visible,
cut into the steel, before
revolutions start

once more, and the wheel
again is nothing more than
a blur of metal;

or, when our eyes know
what to look for, what markings
to accept as truth,

and what impressions
are simply indentations
molded over time.

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