The rotating poem becomes larger. Spinning to start the poem on the outer surface, with liquid words in its depths starting their own counterspin in immediate response, creating eyes and voids and whirlpool staircases that lead to the Continental Shelf, where Ammonium Poseidon, visiting here from the Oceans of Neptune, is sitting on a makeshift chair in a toga, enjoying the view from inside, up through the poisoned atmosphere, which filters the midday sun in pleasing ways. Twang goes the harp. A bucolic moment, everyone admits. Meanwhile, Jacob is shaking in his anti-bee boots.     Here was a missile that had left the earth, and returned to touch me.