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