The wheel of change spins, creating cylindrical space like a slow-moving tornado in
which we reside in the center. It collapses in on itself. Memory creates the shape of a
spiral thrust forward into the future, mimicking the travels of the solar system. On
birthdays, TV reruns, and with whiffs of familiar smells, we return to what is stored
in the body. What feels like apparitions of the past are alive and well, moving through
our DNA.
The ending of things leaves occupation for something else, A growing thing.
