This isn’t a planet,
it’s a boat. Or not a boat really,
but a casket.
That’s why it won’t do
a single thing but capsize.
That’s why all the fish here wear black suits.
I opened the door and there was a forest of musicians on all fours, filling the trees with wind chimes made of bone.
I guess it’s just that time of summer.
The time when ancient marching bands are called back from sleeping in the deeper lakes, and tall men with beehives and thunder in their beards all burn the red leaves from their hats.
All my life I’ve dreamed of paddling
down to the center of the earth.
And drowning there, with all the stars
projected onto the upper waves
by some enormous, prehistoric fish
with a light bulb buried in his head, and the little
wooden box that signifies my entire life
balanced on one tooth.