THE WORLDS OF THE WORLD

little spirit bugs drawn
to the municipal night sun 
they think the buzzing 
is milk, or stars
and like dominoes
the bats advance 
to feast

you dwell in the bold, 
preoccupied world,
slipping most days 
from any chance to know 
what else 

but they all move, 
the worlds of the world 

heaving for beauty and endlessness 
no matter the matrix
of crawlway partitions
that scramble and scream 
for close-goodness
but stay stubbornly apart,
splinters of a trunk
that won’t return

and curse the woman who stays put
in the middle of the road
it's so inconvenient 
to swerve 

but what earthly need must keep her 
there, and what is yours –

to drive in one
straight line? 

one avoids her body, 
but also her request
as all you know is easy
to mistake for all there is to know 
filling  echo with chatter
and darkness with 
searchlights --  

simulating sun, 
or the rush of devotion,

pulsing wristbands
bringing blood
to the stadium's
heart