Fall 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1992 |

Our Country of Origin

I'm dreaming geographically these days. Last night I dreamt I found our island home. My finger traced a slick, gigantic globe Atilt in its mahogany while days Flashed by because I spun the world so fast. The continents began to look obscene. They seemed to drift apart. They seemed like stains, Gigantically polluting stains, adrift Upon the solitary ocean. Time, Forever running out in my father's den, When I was just about to understand Had suddenly run out. The mastermind Of every scheme was in that globe; he grinned At me in latitudes and parallels. Discovery, forbidden islands, hell— To reach between your thighs was not a sin.

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I'm dreaming geographically these days. Last night I dreamt I found our island home. My finger traced a slick, gigantic globe Atilt in its mahogany while days Flashed by because […]

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