In Refrain Poem by April Michelle Wolverton

Curses, the Assailant does bereave,
slandering the resonance of sound
that will only disordinate the glass.

Brilliant spine,
fraught with unrest-
and this,
'quick is, quick is, quick is, quick, '

And yet,
that treacherous Spindle's sermon persists,
undulating in deafness,
crannied by the whoosh-whish
of the Wheel.

Rotating,
this cheek remains
needless in its take, and limp
in its opposition.

Alas, this Spirit humbles,
and ceases to parry,
now, 'circle, circle, circle...'

Stop.

Sleep soundly.