Set XIX · 19 of 21
The Spiral
The same current, from the field to the bird in the room.
Teal and gold. Nested coils. A language that shows up as water, as circuit, as sky, as skin.
First the field itself — the close swirl, the coils, the board, the vortex. Then the world wearing it: birds, a highway, corridors, a table of light. Then the body: a face mapped in spirals, a chest with a signal and a horseshoe, a figure walking in, another standing at the centre. Clovers in the air.
Last: a wagtail on a spiral floor, in a real room, screens of night behind it. The current, landed.
The field. Close. Water, or oil, or a galaxy on a table.
The writing. Coils joined the way letters join.
The board. A cross of gold. The work underneath.
Straight in. The wheel as a mouth.
Drift. The same wheel, seen from the side.
Burst. The centre sending.
The birds. Four of them. The sky is the same current.
The road. Ordinary cars. The sky doing the other thing.
The corridor. Traces underfoot, weather on the walls.
The hall. Nested, mirrored, a cross of light.
The ramp. One road into the wheel.
The horizon. Floor and sky agreeing.
The table. Beings of light. A fire at the far end. The geometry of a supper.
The face. The current written on skin.
The body. Signal through the chest. A horseshoe at the edge.
The walker. Back to us, going in.
The centre. Standing in the wheel, not walking it.
Clovers over the diamond. Luck in the weather.
The wagtail. In the room. The current on the floor, night in the windows.
