John Deming |
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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 guillotine: 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: blistered 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—
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| past simple home |