Somewhere strange things
are taking very long times to happen.
How long do I have to spend knitting these cherries
before I inherit them from myself?
If you don’t die, maybe you can have them.
Pluck this one from your navel.
See? It’s been there all along.
The cherries pop out of your belly
to remind you that you have one.
The stems are stones
and the pits are stones that fell from outer space.
They came from the planet that pops
bubbles of stinking, red gas—
the flatulent, fevering planet—
and now you have three navels.
One looks forward, another looks
back, and the third blinks out fruit,
darkly. We’re each other’s
metaphors for time. Mark it.
How long is this story, exactly?
As long as the bridge, heavy with cars,
that ends in a forest, wet with mammals,
that ends in a storm.
As long as the storm keeps up.
Its middle spills electricity. Run on it.