To begin with, if I refused to begin
I wouldn’t make it this far. The second line
is important but not near as important as the fourth:
which sticks out like a small island
or the short wave of a line ocean.

The ocean
of the second stanza may begin
with two words that signify what surrounds the island,
but by line
five, again, the word, Hitler,
the name coming from the fourth

dimension. Did I mention how dimensions go forth
endlessly? Probably not. The waves of the poetic ocean
may seem to support, come line three, Hitler,
again, this time beginning
to be less surprising, but lining
this giant swimming pool, in which, I land

a perfect cannonball, my disconnected island of flesh splashing froth, waves like fore- play rippling through the body. A line like this last one, for instance, might thicken the ocean of thought enough to slowly begin to build back towards that awful name again: Hitler.

It is like a hitter luring
in the infielder with the threat of a bunt. Is land-
ing on that name shorthand for begging
for attention? (For
the true measurements of this particular ocean,
please wait in line.)

Of all of the pertinent lines in this poem, the following line,
is the most important. O, sure
I could try to sell you the island
of something else, but on the fourth
night my guilt would overtake me. It would begin

to crawl, begin to weave a line
of spiders through my subatomic particles. For Hitler
is the split lip of the poem, the skin island in the bone ocean.