The dip, the arc, the great draw of the winds
and of gravity when running full tilt
down a steep hill almost out of control.
The lift, skating upon toes to the edge
of the street, with winds so strong it pushes
you off the curb, floating willynilly
toward traffic, praying for more gravitas.
Data shows the spiraling of the winds
interlocking across the broad landscape,
like the curl of currents in the oceans.
Before data, artists saw the same curves
locked in threads, wires, glass, etched in brick & stone.
A lined triskele might expand into
a maze of meditation, a silence
of centering, a chant of clear candor
transparent, transmuted. Bodies of beasts
or men, tracing the lines of nerves and blood,
the impulses that fire pleasure and pain,
the pulses that carry breath and substance,
somehow all are twisted into lines, knots
that tie together all loose ends into
something neverending, something moving,
something still, bounded, bounding, boundless, bound —
twined around our tongues, exempt from language.