Like a Circe in a spiral, making deals that seem surreal.
Not an ending or beginning to her ever-spinning spiel.
Like a snowjob in a desert or a scandal that balloons.
Like a manic organ grinder with a troupe of trained baboons.
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past misdeeds under a rug
From where they come a’tumbling when you give the rug a tug.
Like an eagle flying blind
through the smoke rings in your mind.