Best not to speak of them as pointing, though
in truth all points participate. As in everything
loadbearing there is that which succumbs
for each that vanquishes. Clumsy, ordinary,
stocktaking turns. The wheel’s will for pleasure
to register diametrically as pain. We move
and the wheel feels used, yet we won’t admit
to discourse a weighty roundness or a worthy
adversary. By being blunt, a wheel finagles
not to miss the point, but again: doesn’t it
point? By being around, it gets ahead.
It’s whelkwisdom—progress as all
directions assayed in order, but not
at once, then abdicated. Logic as doing
the only thing it knows how to death.