Now, four AM, lying in my own bed,
I look out upon the moonlit parking lot,
sit in a cold sweat, calculate
the differences,
how our busy lives,
like those gyres we drew

with compasses as kids,
by flying apart
all the better might attract
each other back,

sashay and spin, those
gorgeous gyres being perfectly woven
every time we finally
implode upon one another:

your space, my space,
your work my work,
your friends my friends,
your politics, my politics.

                           Chris Butters