A small thing from a large thing that I’m tired of.
was born with a stutter, a full-grown
musket through his chest like a thorn as a baby
(he grew around it he muzzled his flash
and had his mother tie his tie, press
the collar, fresh hat, flesh) and
coughs around the introduction. Schoolkids of Ohio,
perk up and take notice! A great mouth yawning in the north,
water in, water out, and the sun spread thin on a narrow band!
(evocation of Saturn, passing the hat)
premise: at each pole, a hole,
1,400 miles wide, breaching a thick crust—inside,
concentric rings, interior countries, stocked
with thrifty vegetables and animals,
if not men.
Spoken for it not—spoken—his hands sure,
if nothing else, his wooden globe, the wound
pressed under the armpit, hurrying,
and if money was no object, and if money
was no object, ships north from Siberia,
a lucky omen found in any dictionary, and
return in the succeeding spring