EDGE OF THE WORLD

Stand at the edge.
Of the world.
And look down.
You'll see the space whales.
Glinting with oracular patterns.
Of gemstones.
Dotting their backs.
Whatever you do.
Don't speak of gravity.
Or the whales will get in a huff.
And a puff.
And they'll blow you away.
With a mighty toot.
To Timbuktu.
Whistle.
And they'll let you ride them.
If you can't whistle.
Mention your great aunt.
And her collection.
Of porcelain moon babies.
You'll get a ride.
And a lollypop.
But don't stay at the edge.
Too long.
Your hair will get confused.
And will grow from your eyes.
After that you'll forget.
That you're not a crow.
With three heads.
Your two missing heads.
Will disturb you.
Don't ask the stars to play.
Because they will.
Every game of hide and seek.
Would cause many googolplexes.
Of deaths.
Remember to eat.
At least one gemstone.
The whales will act abashed.
But they expect it.
Clouds will form below you.
And rain up.
With every drop.
That touches you.
Expect a tiny explosion.
Of colorful sparks.
Expect to be lied to.
By the thunderous voices below.
Don't expect.
To learn a thing.
Or you won't.
When all the colors.
Swirl together.
A foot and a half.
From your chest.
Wait for the egg to form.
And then cradle it.
In your shaking cold hands.
For two or three moments.
Two moments.
For those who've eaten.
Buffalo meat.
Three moments.
For those who haven't.
During those moments.
You'll feel completely safe.
Finally.
And things will be different.
You might build.
A tire swing.
Or stick post-it notes.
With drawings of mastodons.
All over your body.
You might even tickle.
Your own nose.
With a purple feather.
After your time is up.
Let the egg go.
You made it.
But it's not yours.