Visceral That

Sense that I’m on the other side of the globe, the part you spin 
 to, back of the world, thump thump, not as hollow as it used to be -

A string of the known through your spine, wound through the viscera, roping,

 ineffectually, the yellow clouds of fat (so pulpy! so busy organizing deathdates!) -

An Earth balled on the top of paired feet, as tipped toes lift, lift,
 lower... point and pull the ever ignored front of the ankle, a vie for attention –

A philosophy of spinning ears, of plates of sound, an upshower of lights and bedrock dirt
 smells and rocksparks and histories too slow to know, too small and fast to be our data…

Much ballyhoo over birthdays, when the everydays earn those blown candles.