The Nietzschean Hourglass of My Thoughts on This, My Disease, of Eternal Recurrence

Once, in Washington Heights as my thoughts were being drawn
Through a symphony of glass and, there within, sucked into ac-

celerating particles and jots of time itself, seconds stained with
The yellow to violet avenues of dusk, I came to grief or, as some

Might say, terms while crossing High Bridge with the voice that
Later would confirm my diagnosis ‘that there was no voice and

Then the one which would multiply and drift,’ come to think of it
Drift like a Chinese lamp or beacon of smoke, telling me something,

Whispering any given conspiracy, knowing I carried the gene and
Would believe anything it spoke; the cruelest utterance burning

My hair, burning my eyes as if I were the one who volunteered for
This vehemence, lifetimes ago; to travel, night and day, on this immense

Journey for which, over blank stretches of no, no, no; it serves me right.