Loosening spiders across the inert baritone
of transfictional time,
he describes the exact absence
of moment in equilibrium,

a beehive of rotating universes,
devising space like a plate
of spaghetti, white
in white sauce, a priori
arithmetic in a physical world.

The hidden language rises
to meet its own magnetism—
it is safe here
for all us rabbits. Larkspur,
lake, a gravy of lamb bone.

The sorrow in all this
is less than our objection
to old age, suffering
and death by grasshopper.

Kurt asks how a delectable fat insect
can create a successful famine?
In the logical city their antennae, wings and legs
are burned by the bushel as fuel.

And even the King delights in them
if first dipped in ashes and gruel.