The world it does spin. This we know, not in space as we are told. It spins in time we feel and see. Two hands you have on two long arms. With one you pull at ocean's tides. The other hand is gauntlet gloved. Two brothers borne and lived and died. One was born a knife who plunged hilt deep into hot flesh of girl and man, but contentment was too deep. The other one was born a stone, silent and still but seeking, was dropped into a well. Plop was the only sound he ever made and finding depth plumbed was done. Their sister is a circle ever growing, she whispers in men's ears. Oh turquoise daughter, this world spins too fast for me. There is a pile of leaves that smolders. There is a pile of leaves conceals more death than I have ever seen. There is a top between our legs that spins perpetually. A man stands waist deep in the sea. The rip tide cleaves him in two. Turquoise daughter, birds fall from trees. Turquoise daughter darkening aflame. The sun is burning the western sky. Turquoise mother what are our names? The dog stars fly, the wires scream. There are two breasts, but children three. When she dies she becomes a great white pelican, wings drawing on the water. Then, there's just mankind and her. The pelican is wiser. She cuts apart the piles of leaves. She cuts the breasts from off her chest. She cuts the marrow from her bones. The great white pelican, she cuts like no knife or tide or sharp stone can. She whispers in mens' ears she says it spins too fast for you and wire cuts too deep. This we know, we feel and see -- the great turquoise pelican can cut the tides, but cannot chase the sea.