XVIII. Wheeling Time   A bicycle's a cosmos. Rolling forward, Wheels turn the linear pin, moving toward What goal? The wheel's sole intent is turning, Like the earth around the sun, never learning That no place is new. Do we grow or merely age? Do we change, or just get older, moving stage By stage around the circuit of our times? Harnessed to our pin, we act again crimes Of the heart, new passions surely passing Into ends. We act, perhaps amassing Fortunes—gold or souls of lovers—more To count than use them, hoards encircled for What future need? Arms embracing withered grass, We talk of gold, of souls, and watch days pass.