Here's a poem
from the center of the world:

The swimmers at the surface
cry for more, "More poetry!  More!"
They want to be torn into small pieces
		and scattered in the wind off bridges.
They chant, "Desire, desire, desire.",
between half a snack 
		and a sip of coffee.
In their offices,
nothing moves of its own accord,
		the air conditioning sucks oil from the earth,
		the lights flood James Bay,
		and the computers never sleep.

Mountain lions prowl the reservoir villages.
The seasons have collapsed.
We bring mass murders to the New World and beg for peace
		as they feed on our horror
		as mites feed on dust
				on the floor,
				in our beds,
				on our eyelids,
				everywhere.




						Brandywine
						11/9/95