we are digging to the center of the earth
the sailor puts a mirror over his eyes
the center is a thing that makes sound out of reach
it is fragile like a sister
one approaches it slowly and makes possible slow attraction
it turns silently in its house
the sailor says of his intention, “It is the width of the distance to the center”—the sailor with the white eyes, the sailor in love with the eye of
he looks toward the center
the sailor with the surly demeanor is eating breakfast in the house of the former
having lunch
taking a siesta
lying down in a bed of rice
in underground tunnels they dig slowly
the sailor stretches his paws, digging
the center is round and yellow
it is a congealed tear in a loaf of bread
yellow droplet
it is a yellow stain that impassive weeps fluid
“yet the sun is so close to us,” the one sailor says to the other
the sailor cries for the center
the sailors put their backs against each other and their faces point to the center
the center combines itself with others
magnetizes its surroundings
we sense this as attraction
the sailors look at each other across vast spaces
the center is a thing that moves, like a silent brain, turning behind eyes
it is a person, it is not a person
it doesn’t listen, it blinks when you blink
sailors move around in the dark
the underground makes a sound like a circle
and the sun is so close
and the sun is so close