Seven Views of a Circle
Barbara Van Noord
The orange on the window sill,
its beveled navel, the green sprigs
clinging to the plucked twig.
The whole moon on a batten of cloud,
scrimshaw presented on plush black nap,
the sky hinged open.
Your arms around me,
your earlobe, my nose.
Ezekiel’s wheels, haloes, glories, sun spots,
a dewdrop dissecting the spectrum,
one day revolving into another.
Your forefinger touching your thumb,
a signal from the driveway that all’s well.
That terrible painting called The Scream.
The sound of sound departing,
bubbles of agony.
History, the spiral of discard
and rediscovery, the thought
that there is nothing new under the sun.