The Path Is a Circle

This is a love poem.
It is when clocks no longer run.
It resembles the hands themselves.
It laughs.
It moves in trembles and doesn’t turn around.
It is with wings and grows lighter.
It is kinder and free of history.
It is curious.
It is turning and in slow motion.
Strange electricity with the buzzing.
It is sky into dawn.
It is the revolution of being.
There is peculiar grace.
It is the stars afloat.
There is lift.
There is rising.
It is standing there under the cottonwood.