A man once said,

very Britishly and dapper

and deadly, “I could eat you

all up with a pudding spoon.”

Groundbreaking.

(Stiff upper lip) I slip

into what if

I were a sinkhole?

On the surface I am

railroad, bridge, street,

but below I am woman-

spreading, containing.

I drink it up.

I think of the ocean’s floor.

I sink into my eye sockets

all the way to China,

to the trembling core

of the matter. This is a wake

up call—man oh man,

don’t flatter yourself—

I’ve consumed ponds

five times your size.

Small hand man, quicksand

is a dear friend of mine.

You want less nag

while you drill and spill?

I’ll be so quiet you won’t hear

my detonator—

a weight

I’ve buried beneath

your house

as you fiddle around worrying

about the stock market,

or whatever.