Gary Glauber writes

Wheel

The identical waves are an illusion;

each has its own specific order here:

crashing, foaming, spraying, dissipating.

One and done.

The maypole is under ground,

bound by a futures contract
for one day of eventual freedom

before this crazy world implodes.

Watch as composting compulsion

breaks it all down in time, but soft 

the stars still do their supernova shuffle

and we think we’re somehow better than that.

The naiveté unravels
the binding, unwinding
ancient glories to ruins.
As wonders crumble, gold tarnishes,

reminding how nothing lasts forever.