A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
While the doctors were riding around in me in their little chrome submarine,
and a sniper with his snippers stood by the bay door poised to pluck
any polyp stupid enough to show himself, the pilot, a surgeon with laser eyes
spotted a light in the shifting flora, in the green innard glow of all that,
and when they hovered above it discovered an entire city of Liliputoid beings
busying themselves unwinding silk cocoons, from which sprang other happy
little beings that sang of missed opportunities and hidden wonders.
They said, Don’t hide your light under a pile of prestidigitations
and other more gnomic things, like, Inner is outer if you go deep enough,
or After you’ve expunged the twaddle you can hold all things, see,
and I looked and there, above the cratered diverticuli, a galaxy was unfolding
like a radiant cluster of fish eggs, each containing a world, each a star.
Copyright 2016 Doug Anderson