The Circles

“The air bears little creatures
over the hillsides. They are very black,
swarthy, dark-coated. Bountiful of song
they journey in groups, cry loudly,
tread the woody headlands, sometimes the town-dwellings
of the sons of men. They name themselves.”

-        Riddle 57

Should the poet ponder the head of Jormungand

Or it’s flaying, punctured tail?

Where indeed to find a beginning or an end,

for that which never sparked or ceased?

The philosopher – the mathematician –

all must agree, that when trying and failing

to measure a ring, a sound, a thought, a circle –

they must abandon this first and oldest riddle

and draw a border

right down the orbit’s middle –

to pass hand by hand

on Mongol coin and Persian textile –

the hares which ran the circuit of the Earth

and came to rest on boss, headstone, and tile,

but why – they cry,

is there always three?

Three nails in the palm of Christ

or three distinctions to the trinity?

Perhaps three jewels to rend Samsara

or the three Pure Ones of the Dao?

When pacing the three paths

which lead to Hecate,

they ask,

is this fertility or infinity?

Is it three branches for every tree

or three notes to shape a song,

perhaps three bits to every key,

or three sides to every story?

You ask and entreat and beg

for a tedious, tenuous clarity,

but is it truly a wonder, my friend,

that those three hares –

that shape-shifting mystery –

might sprint a candid chorus

hale but hoary

of sweet Dumnonia

and its eternal glory?

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