Still Spinning

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This is yet the ruined land
When all else
Has come and gone.

‘Though on the precipice,
‘Though at the boundary,

With all the build-up
Building next door,

This is the planting ground,
Growing smaller,
As did the herds,

As did the roaming
Hunter
In his day of passing.

So on we go,
From this into that.

From planter’s field
To potter’s ground,
Grounding out the change.

Will the planted
Be made to uproot?
What will feed the leaves?

In every turning,
Every passing away,
Every lament

Is issued forth

For the passing
And the turning
Of the gyres, still spinning.

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