Immaculate

And now I’m spinning
in the center of the square
while you count casualties in
fields of a different kind—
faster goes the neon light
spiraling down my spine

And I’m considering the gravity
that’s holding this scene together:
”Am I the center of this orbit, 
or just the one reeling?”
Mindlessly watching
the blur of buildings whose doors
look toward the steeple
staring down at me—exposing
this revolution as my kaleidoscopes twist
in the eyes of God.

And in the silence,
I hear the diamonds— 
crackling transparencies. 
So I sound the wailing sirens,
they’ll beckon the troops yet,

And I’ll be spinning fast enough
To brush the laurel out of my hair.