Sometimes,
in order to feel sound,
you’ll
slap your feet and hands
and
butt like flapjacks on the ground.
All
well and good to say the world
is round,
but gravity makes you
believe
in flat and falling down
and
that to huff and puff up to the skies
from
that implies you’d damned well
better
make provision to come back.
Best
provision you can think to make
is just
to sit right where you are
and
let the others of your species
dream
of weightlessly ascending
barbarously
far and far and far away
to some unfriendly floating gaseous star.
.
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