by James B. Nicola

The Center, if it holds, requires the Hole, as if the Spiral were pressed in a vinyl

disk. Set the heart of Nothing on the spindle and start the record round;

trace the line coiled both inward and outward to rekindle the ardor

of invention, dark as coal through which the diamond can take

a soul, that darker gem which, though it may advance

toward the center forever, is unable to reach it, for

the printed colored label that’s in the way—and

is the Way: the tune, logo, and written

record, like a rune. But while the

stylus circles in, we dance.