On Being Lied To

Yes, tell me what this is.
This thing that I do not understand,
the silence that embraces you, perfect
and very still, with no space for sideway glances.

A globe of very finely blown glass, a terrarium
for the arachnid that lives at the molten
core, a scratchy little fucker with powder
hair on its legs, for balance I'm told,
always sussing out how to keep
the core molten but cool to the touch.

Listen, I say, gravity is the answer. Mercury.

No, you say.  Overweight luggage incurs fees.
You'd rather sublimate, fill it up with exhale after exhale,
the slightly sweet, slightly acrid wisp of metabolized
alcohol, volatile in the night.

(ed. Jan. 8th, 2014)