Now in impossible spacelessness,
hero, you hold the static body to your chest.
You have lashed down your breasts
and lopped your hair to make the grade.
Now you are entirely impressionable.
It is silent and black for the first memorable time.
Think of it as a box.
You wait in the box for something to happen.
Alive or dead in the box, maybe someone is guessing.
A trolley arrives to the mind, filled with second graders.
They pick their way through snow in stockings.
Red body, blue body, the path is narrow
and the children move speedily, toting shoulder bags.
They point with their chins.
With the purposefulness of youth.
(A trilobite arrives to the mind, a trillion
of evolution; shower of tiny gold pencils;
rise of a basement lamp; a twisting grosgrain hair-ribbon
appears to represent—