The fan comes on flying, the blades chasing each other around and around, spinning until static,
faster now,
and each one looks like it’s going to catch up with the one ahead, or get caught up with by the one behind,
faster now,
and collide in a great big crash of spectacle and projectile,
faster now.
Of course this will never happen.
The blades still, on account of going even faster,
giving up with the chase and yet now at this speed even closer than before,
and who can even say where one blade is and the other, still not caught up with the rest but mistaken for such.
Cold from the spaces between, cut up and served by the one blade chasing itself in circles bound never to touch,
but always to blur,
reversing now, slowing to individuality, and cold disappears
as the spaces grow overwhelming,
shoving the blades aside,
separating them out, fingers fashioned from one complete speeding revolving body.
Still blades, waiting, far from touching or being mistaken for doing so.
Starlike, stretched out and humiliated,
drawn and quartered and ready.