So goes the revolution. To turn the wheel, to rotate, revolve, turning the turn, the turn of a hair— and it’s the loss of all composure. A hairpin turn, to turnabout, to look… Now it’s your turn to turn down, to spin, swivel, swerve, to take the curve that turns the stomach, to veer and arc, with the turn of a screw the turnbuckle of the body is fixed. Turning the tables. You’re never turning back. Turn the key as all heads turn, when nobody is looking, the body turned loose no longer impounded. Turn up the music. Turn off the lights. Turn on. Turn over. We take turns twirling before turning-in for the night, to return to sleep, to turn out with the morning riders who, in turn, turn their pages. Turn around and we turn a certain age. Turn around again and the sunlight is turning, turning this dim room bright.