By Michael Ashley
It turns
the trees against the sky,
a giant hamster wheel in our home,
dainty fingers come away
from the mechanism,
It turns
a meal in the light
of a microwave oven,
a dead pig on a spit,
oars in the row lock,
It turns
the milk in my fridge,
the bread in my metal tin,
that knot in the pit
of my empty stomach,
It turns
over time
good, bad, ugly, beautiful,
eventually
It all turns
Clutching at Straws 