The  tournant  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  yeux  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  atmosphère , which filters the midday  soleil  in pleasing ways. Twang goes the harp. A bucolic moment, everyone admits. Meanwhile,  Jacob  is shaking in his anti-bee boots.     C'était un missile qui avait quitté la terre et qui était revenu pour me toucher.