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Not fate’s, in the lady’s hand,
and not the great
Mandala of gods and demons, not Kerouac’s “spinning
Wheel of meat conception” or Pinsky’s figurations, or some
Other praise of radical continuities, but bright, unblemished,
Honed to an edge of utter impersonality, a sort
Of reverse god, whose circumference was everywhere,
Whose center, unimaginable point of zero friction,
Was hope’s nowhere, was the end of Dante’s funnel,
Was also everywhere. I’d been dreaming of my family,
Parents and children, after a long evening’s vigil
Waiting for the snow to start, a nor’easter’s revolving
Progression up the weather radar, after an afternoon
Stocking gas for the car and food, and there it was
In the gloved hands of the guy at the deli, the wheel
Slicing as thin as I cared to what I needed to live.
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