The still point

Turn again,travel the self same road to the journey’s endwhere sea scuffs the rough from salted skinand the fishermen ply their nightly tradefireflies burning the horizon.  Turn again,with the two of us pirouettinggracefully cloning our separate pointswithin the evolving circle. Try one more timethese long forgotten giftsimmaculately coating our separateness:and choice is a carnival of illusionto hold or not to hold; to plunge or linger on the edges of your unlapped shore where the fishermen trawl their fished out seasas we float in the ocean of what this might be:if I  could only turn again.