I must go there to the pen.
The computer. My desk.
From my wide arched front window
which looks out over a busy cul-de-sac
full of lost aimless hearts.

It is itself a circle. Or part of one.
It comes back on itself like life.

They come back on themselves like snakes or rings.
Strangers drive to our eyes looking for lips.
Most double back. Self deleted.
Or was it me? Did I do that to them?
Send them round and round?
They can’t escape without going back
from where first they did come.
Loving self first.
The womb. Feelings.
Is it all dumb?