A rope bridge over a blank page.
The wind whistling Dixie.
Fallout gracing a walnut cabinet.
A clock doing the cha-cha-cha.
Benisons greasing their hair back.
Sailors frigging in the rigging.
A thumbnail sketch of a thumbnail.
A preacher converting a priest,
but the two of them consumed with envy,
sinners with time's blood on their hands,
the refectory broken free of its moorings.

You see, all the world is inside
this little red ball being thrown at a wall,
the entire Earth in a tea kettle,
a whole universe, nuts and all,
flying through the hole in my hand,
making a sharp left by the chestnut tree,
Polaris ad-libbing, Andromeda off-script,
the cosmos on a psychotropic bender,
waking in a smoky motel room,
lipstick on its collar, fingers stinking,
a love-mummy under the oily duvet,
making the sound two pennies create
when vigorously rubbed together,
a fifteen billion year old sinkhole
with lava-breath, comets in its hair,
a minor god clawing at moondust,
making a last grab at the ringpiece,
the stench of rosinweed and rose moss,
stridulations of the katydid, tapeworms,
the whole nine yards and ball of wax
sucked down a drain, dragging light,
pulling the sky down, loosening firmaments,
taking desolation with it, devastation too,
holding even God under its ruined waters.