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Eden; The World Is Round by Peter Roberts


god mutters

in his garden

“these weeds

that sprang up

when i made angels

– shadows, bent

reflections, parodies

of my divine work

– i keep pulling

them up, but they

just grow back

in greater numbers

– many more now

than the heavenly host!

nothing i do

seems to stop

them. worse yet,

they presume to

think themselves

people. as if.”

the world is round

lenticular clouds

compress logarithmically

to the far horizon.


in this corner of the world

— this corner of no right angles —

the salt-breeze is gentle,

the high-breaking waves are warm,

& the sun strikes obliquely

on the copper-shiny sphere

at the volcano’s rim.


green birds circle the sphere,

reflected in its surface, deflected

by its influence. no one

dares approach it, but all

can feel its force. it

infiltrates our waking thoughts,

it grips & shapes our dreams.


in the shadow of the sphere

we dream inhuman, foreign dreams —

we dream the dreams of others,

in language & cadences not our own:


the song of the sphere is a siren song

whose purposes we cannot plumb;

it began as a whisper

but soon grew strong, a call

we cannot withstand for long.

we ought not go where we would be led,

yet who does not follow will soon be dead.

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