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Spinning 
Death-rattle
of the bedroom fan
gives
way late at night
to
the clank of an old ferris wheel
that
spins me backwards
but
like all remembered scenes
does
not move from its place
in
the brain�s more playful terrain
until
I realize I�m not
in
Coney Island anymore, so this
must
be the Prater, people waltzing
to
a zither as Freud takes a
seat
on the wheel, tips
his
hat, disappears
to ski on a snow-cloud
along
with Mahler and, yes, a third man
not the least bit familiar, who might be an
emigree
from either the future or
from Mittel-
Europa,
1939, but I�m not afraid
because
I�ve been spun to fine threads
gold
chains strung with blueberries
currants
that resemble red pearls
Soon
I�ll make my own orbit
around
the Jupiter moons, the first to dip a toe
into
the rumored sea
below the ice
If
eventually I must
wake
to the last breath
of
that bedroom fan
I could easily shift
into
a rainbow-spoked compact disk
spinning
its silvery music
in
a circle dance
that
continues to play
never
dizzy
or
scratched even if compelled
by
mysterious forces
to
move
counter-
clockwise.
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