Spin

Spin

What you remember, possibly,
the rough hands

of the seasons turning you,
a blindfolded child—

one summer or a hundred winters,
give or take—

and the wobble of the globe
beneath your feet

a bare branch, clotted clouds,
a wrinkled cheek close to your own,

the daughter of time
and her endless account books

or perhaps simply blankness—

a steadying hand on your shoulder
before you stumble, dizzy, into the light.