Cutting corners because that’s all we have to cut,
pulling ourselves through the needle’s eye
even as, like Jack, we continue to descend,
Fee Fi Fo Fum at our back. Our eyes strange
with seeing because the ball is still in the air.
No, it’s in our hands which is why we slip out
into the earth’s big forest taking the shortcut
that will bring us to our abandoned childhoods
where boulders are crocheted with lichen
and language ricochets off our tongue
and once again we believe we have dodged the bullet
not realizing the bullet has made other plans.
