It's fathomless, this *whirlpool*
we keep circling around
and around again.
Someone pulled the plug
eons ago, in case you were wondering.
So, here we are, spinning,
going nowhere, fast.
You demand to know details,
as if they'd keep you from slipping
into the funnel, as if
figures and facts
would compel you
to do what's necessary
to save yourself. Your family,
surely for them you'd muster up
a little of that western gumption
your ancestors were so proud of hawking
whenever the going got tough.
Without having to lift a finger
or make a difficult sacrifice,
you believe there's a way
out of this predicament: An arm
materializing out of the clouds
at the very last second, extending
a branch to the deserving.
Some profess to wish upon a star.
In the end, it makes no difference who you are.
* The image of the whirlpool is borrowed from Margaret Avison's poem
"The Swimmer's Moment"