I tasted each inch of the earth.
I did not like it but I did it.
There were extravagant flavors,
Gobi, Horse Track, Lava Field, London . . .
People saw a starving criminal
and mildly kicked me, or flicked me crumbs,
while I etched a new map of the world
inside my roving mouth.
Soon Sweet, Acrid, and their family failed.
When my tongue hardened it discovered
specimens of No persistent
everywhere. In the tang of sunrise
or populous night; on footprints, scurried;
stable, through the caterwauling clay: No.
Stephen Sturgeon is the editor of Fulcrum: an Annual of Poetry and Aesthetics. His first collection of poems, Trees of the Twentieth Century, will be published by Dark Sky Books in the coming months.