[wpaudio url=”/audio/december11/Anstett.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
“Indeed, this world is flat; as for the other, nonsense.”
—Jules Laforgue

My blood girds up, and that knucklehead, my heart,
says its two words over and over. This filibuster
of dark and light and dark again just doesn’t stop.

Now I might swagger the front stoop, bluff
as a theorem, taking my empty hands for proof
the world’s full, trees trembling all down the street,

birds steaming. Wind slugs through the heat, flattens
paper to the fences. Every window liquors up with sun.
Maybe I could stagger a sidewalk all day, scared

and mortal, lighting matches one by one.
Wouldn’t I cower like I’d proven
the world truly flat, blood riding my veins like a bus route?