I trail my suitcase along the platform，

    the weight of the air‘s mechanism¹

    at the small of my back. In the old country

    a man would arrive from afar，

    give each child a whistle， and parade them

    through the village， whistling.

    What is this fury of forms， boarding trains，

    handing out whistles to children？

    Dear spigot， dear filtering film of rubber，

    if this world is the only world，

    Anaximander will go on shaking his sieve²，

    persistently³ sifting⁴ with an ear to the ignition—

    striker of matches， your scent⁵ of cloves⁶， your fire

    rides the circumference⁷ and a vortex gyrates at the center.

    There is the vermiform signature： you may eat

    of this tree. Now the glorious propinquity， now

    the rupture⁸. A village elder goes on debating

    with his god. Who can tell if he receives a reply？

    In the old stories， if you whistled，

    the light would come to you

    out of curiosity.