A trinity of infinity—
circling the eight,
on thin ice I skate,
stomach turning
fast as never mind,
ten thousand years ahead
or am I still behind?

If I spoke it 
or I wrote it
who would possibly
believe it?

Over being forced down
and pulled back under,
I cannot go on
giving out and
lying flat in bed
or sitting in a chair
as if bound upside down.

If I spoke it 
or I wrote it
who would possibly
believe it?

I wanted this to be
a happy poem 
but it is only more
moving in circles, 
being driven down
in the ground, too tired
to remember trinity or infinity.