It's more than a glossary, a colloquium
of pinpricks in a black sheet of paper
held to light. Like other worlds, it is first word
and exhausted star. Each time I return
I open it again, pry back the installed
grate, and go inside.
It is dark inside.
It smells of old fur inside. The walls are all
basketball graffiti, jokes about bits,
tits, the sort of shit you'd expect.
It appears to lead on forever.
The walls, the room, the passageway goes on
until it vanishes in perspective. Imagine if
this was the Renaissance, Leon Battista Alberti
writing in De pictura, 1435
codifying geometric perspective
transforming the pictured world into a better
replica of itself.
Inside that world, that hole, that ball
or I want it to be everything, as limitless
as language, my Michigan, mother,
my frozen hole of weather,
the cat's eye that recurs,
the balls, the blood, my blood, this book,
my bursts, my armless brother,
all the availability of blizzards, Dairy Queen
and other, my form, the heart,
that Icarus, the light and the like,
the loss, my mine, my motion, my emotion,
my patterns, salt, my sermons, demons, stars,
my sums, weather, whether taken together
this constitutes my or anyone's semblance of a world.