Maureen Seaton
One travels clockwise, harboring knives.
One holds a sickle.
In a glass atop a bomb, one shatters mind.
Holy David Byrne, I say.
(The head is never silent.)
The left side of the brain tolls, whirling longitude.
The right side is a cliff of mud.
Along the horizon: zigging steam shovels.
Up close: zagging zebras.
Now one makes a nest in the eye.
One shits along the cortex.
At noon, hemispheres cast shadows in opposite directions.
Creatures on the equator fall, murdered by sun.