I want to pull the earth on its back,
and let it hang with my five dollar purses
, Leaned forward with its shoulders arched like and old blouse.
I'll let it hang there for days, pretend that its wet, but it'll become wrinkled and dry like the face of a sliced avocado; living,dying and ripening...
all at the same time.
Should I shame it like a mother?
Point an unpolished nail in its direction
show flashes of angry beige teeth
with an occasional splash of spit
flying off the crack of my lips?
Or should I hold it's belly like a child,
make an ear sandwich on her belly as I listen to
the unknown growing inside
fast as a tree in Manhattan growing in a wet year.