John Deming


Something Invisible Grows

through the sky to the stars
and back. The dead man
calls me an egg—he just
can’t help but continue
laughing at the sight of his
own death: indeed nothing’s
more splendid, more off-
beat in its ply of human
asperity, than his inane be-
headed head bouncing down
those steps so affront the
            but the some-
thing that’s growing larger,
it gets so large it crosses
to another plane, becomes
microscopic in an un-
imaginable world. In
which giant people sitting
at giant desks require
exotic lenses to see it.
Likewise the largest
things begin to shrink
at times: too big to see
becomes too little:
haze, a snowy sunrise—
I melt the most symmetrical
flakes with my index finger.
At which the dead man
erupts into laughter again.
He has to hold his belly
with both hands. He knows
it was all enough, the old egg—

past simple home