I blame you, Charybdis.

I blame your fatal curves.

Your hurtling curl. 
Your primal, viral spiral that weaves its way into the web and weft of the world so insidiously.

I see you in the cyclone of evaporated hopes spinning through the fingers of graspless hands.

I see you in the diamond tip of the drill that pierces the skin of the Earth for its black blood a mile below the surface of the Gulf of Mexico. 
You are in the fractal whirlpool of the stars and in the dizzy nebula of the nanosphere.
You can be found in the calcified coil of the conch and in the sweet lure of the couch.
You are the curl in Fibonacci’s fern.
Oh Charybdis. 
You are the power that reduces oceans into carnival spin-art abstracts.

And it’s you in my thoughts, circling the dark drain of memory, where you curl hard in the private armadillo of my heart.


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