We drew planks near. Pooh, quicklime, dry skin,
it all goes behind nails. You pump the balloon.
The basket, markers, the helmet made of leather
and goggles. Neat. Will you jump from the balloon
to the trampoline made only for body weight?
Gravitation isn’t coupons you can tear off,
all of them at once. You’d kill yourself, tearing
them off all at once. Lungs widen. The space
changes, you stand up and sing, sing and sing,
the space becomes blue, your hair stands up,
you undress and dance, it sprinkles, brains literally
spray and you go into the belly of a spider,
settle there, pick up a broom in the first moment,
clean a bit in this huge sphere, then see the walls
blot what is under the broom, and again
you stand up and sing, you swing in a sort of
live sand. The walls start to drip. You don’t hit
the keys anymore. The scribe looks over his shoulder
and asks: shouldn’t we stop for today, as it seems
the spider’s belly will burst? And where shall we
go then? On the paper? With all this birth water?