Hidden Worlds

Some things I think are overhead Are also underneath my bed And this is true of you, as well. So mark my words now, as I tell: Beneath the clothing bins we store, Under the stairs and basement floor, Beneath the tracks of snails and slugs, The homes of chipmunks, moles, and bugs, Beneath the cracks where waters run Through garnet and magnesium, Below the mantle—an iron core, More mantle, crust, then ocean floor, With thermal vents, volcanic glint, Turtles, whales, and tiny shrimp, Beneath the driving winds and rain, We find the stratosphere again. And deeper still, the moon’s bright face, Then stars and wonders strewn through space. So maybe now my claim is clear; We rest upon a little sphere, and “Up” and “Down” make sense alone To Beings who are stuck at home.