a secret roundabout: in what used to be 
  brazil or china. fenced in, secluded by 
  special plants growing unusually tall.  
    spelled in by purposeful symmetry,    
     roads like symbols, aligned with     
  ley lines. dialed in with well-rounded  
             gps coordinates.             
                                          
                                 
                                          
   a dangerous game: the roundabout is    
  important to some large constellation   
       of intents and bureaucracies.      
  governments and companies are creatures 
     in a way. yet people sneak small     
   between their claws, and hide in the   
    roadside bushes. they wait there.     
                                          
    vehicles approach; the game is on -   
   quickly the people assemble in well    
  practiced geometries. their bodies make 
  counter-spells on the asphalt. traffic  
   is instantly diverted, flows in sick   
  ways, like dogs let loose. symmetry is  
                  lost.                   
                                          
 cars are ejected into the greens. ships  
     collide. there are many kinds of     
      casualties, on both sides. the      
    spellmakers will not come home. it    
   sickens me, this physical reality of   
  it, but the cause is just. i sneak back 
      over the fense, heading south.