The Cog Poem by Mark Heathcote

So, the world is always out of focus-
in its Ferris wheel of strangeness,
it locates to the nearest cog deftly.
The arrow of a swift's tail is the thing only we'll see.
Our millponds have no clarity - no eaves-
upon; which to rest, roll up our sleeves?

It is like the swift, so often vexed
has given up on an old pretext:
it's better not to live life to the fullest
it's better to work your damned hardest
so the Ferris wheel of strangeness spins,
locates the cog, where it all again begins.