the President asks. And what shall he name them?
Like the one Jules Verne put at the center of the Earth,
the sky above it crackling with lightning and pterodactyls.
“I know, I know!” He goes. “We have North America, and
the other one. Let’s call it Under America!” With my ear
to the sand I hear its buried heart. Our plane has
crashed somewhere in the Gobi. Why can’t I get
this man out of my head? In another dream he wrecked
a whole train formation with his giant abdomen exposed,
heavy, rubescent animal teats blocking the tracks.
The Pres picks up a shell fossil, hears a dog whistle.
The new ocean he thought he found late last summer
was just traffic noise coming through his window.
“Why can’t I be like the lion cub or the baby gorilla
unafraid of his big daddy?” POTUS pouts. “Aren’t we all
dark magicians, alchemists, freaks of nature leading
a life of folly?” an aide says. Maybe you are,
I think. “What shall we eat?” Cats and dogs, I offer.