Look yonder at winding boy
surrounded by the three azure-eyed
flower-weaving daughters
(under every flower a serpent coiled).

They are like liana vines
around a palmetto.

They ply their shuttles in the roaring loom
of time, in the inaccessible regions.

And when they die their web is left
unfinished.

Winding boy insisted: “Hurting is not
my profession.”

Yonder winding boy volunteered
to walk them home in the evening.

Then a bulldozer came down the pike,
and then a psychiatrist covered with lice.

Winding boy and the remaining daughters 
exchanged niceties and the World-Egg

and dentistry. There are many words
on the tongues of the ineffable,
to clash their cymbals before the cavern of night.

They direct the sound, the sound which
“goes out into all worlds,” for their god
is a twisted dragon, a certain spiral force.

Yonder winding boy and the Marvels
their dusty vocal cords.

Beyond that, there is a void, an office,
where they are waiting to get their hearing
at the bar of history itself, succinct and factual.

One of them says: “If I regret anything,
I regret this.”