On the rim of the golden coin we spun
fiefly lit for our soaring flight.
For a frozen tick of time we hung
at the crest of the turning disk of light,
upturned faces lost below,
above us space and stars and night
By day we see that cables snake
through trampled grass to girdered wheel,
its motor black with furry grease,
its garish paint begun to peel
Popsicle wrappers and popcorn bags
blow fitfully through bolted steel.
We should see truth by sunlight. Still