The world as the sum of its nations,
bored out of patience, tapping its feet.—
The contemptible stars that’re posted around it.
Rind on the worldly fruit, they dream to see
fall from the press of a knife, and away—
such spotted rind from a black plum,
vowing to put its flesh forth skinned
before any willing diner.
They’ll wait for when the knife is made,
and the will is shaped, that
can swipe far enough.
-2004
