The vultures circle like experts
In the art of statecraft. The world
Turns on their axis, carefully
Rearranging the air below
Their wizened heads so they don't fall.
The clues, therefore, are not the clues
One thought they were but upside down,
All gravity fleeing outward.
Who knows what the story is now?
Gaunt Don Quixote rests in bed,
His madness apparently past.
He discourses without belief,
Which his auditors take to mean
He believes whatever they do.
The scene changes. It was never
A scene. Nothing ever so still.
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