Like a myth you could sleep inside
like a hollow reed singing who, who, who
like a planet in its wobble
like a fine, translucent egg and the current
against which it hatches
uncertain bride of meridians
swishing above the core’s suggestion
like a hive heavy with feast
the bay leaf in the oracle’s mouth
before she shrieks your tiny destiny
or the rope-bridge slack underfoot
each step gripping its modest vector
propelling this insufficient substance
like a halo tipped, mathematically,
cleansed with golden soap and blown through
a bubble searching its roundness in air
like the real universe peeking out
at its edges, waiting for an idea of itself
to loose its mighty arrow, to look back at us
and say not this, but this.