It was a basement with its own basement, and in that basement were machines and dusty weapons, the engines of the house; where the floor gave way because of intense pressure from below, and magma boiled up through the wood-looking tiles; where to leap to safety broke my sister's foot; where the animals that weren't as smart as we were captured and admired; where we watched in horror as the ski lift lifted the men inexorably to death; it was my favorite room in the house.
If you, Tom, could see this inflight video map
of the world turning wildly on its axis
you would not, I think, be mad, though it is not
on paper, and that is what you do, but it is
a useful thing to see the earth twisted up like this;
it is our minds that are twisted, and you
are twisted too around a spoon, and drunk, I’m sure
by now, like me, past Newfoundland’s shore
with other peoples’ wine and dotted lines
to Bruxelles where I will only be
to switch planes, but you, I think, first went
there of all the other places you’ve been,
gobbling up the light as you went,
sending presents wrapped in maps.