The Lovely Wheel

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There by the river, there is a
crematorium—
The tree~leaves flutter in the flood
of noon; I gently walk by that crematory,
tarry around its fields, look at
the faint marks of half-smoked
cigarette sticks. . .

"My aunt died last July", said an
engineer once, ". . .and we brought her here
in an orange colored ambulance—her ashes
came back to us from a red-hot tray. They're
quick."

I've heard these stories time and
again; yet, I'm addicted to this crematorium,
to all crematoriums all over the world.
What if there was no death—what if
the vertical wheel became
horizontal; stopped its heartbeat, even
started to move backwards?

WHEEL
The Wheel.
I touch its lovely spokes, I observe
its gearings gyrate.The world, a Michelangelo
statuary.