His eyes are so weary of the endless
to and fro, they can discern nothing
beyond the hundred thousand bars
that have become his world now.

To move as lithely as he does, to pad
in easy circles to a central point – it’s
here his dance-like energy is halted,
the great will numbed and frozen.     .

At times though, there’s a quiet flicker�
of an eye when some shape, sliding
past the limbs’ taut silence, leaps deep
into the heart – stops there, and is still.

William Rush

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