A Tiny Pre-Kangaroo Slips Out Its Mother’s

low sweet spot, blind as certain insects to follow

the spit road she tongues down her belly

for this bit of pre-stars and vapor,

pre-meteor whatnot inch-worming up that line

of seasick wet, pioneering what’s possible

toward the pouch to be a Pinkie then,

months to fur-out there past flood, drought, fire

unto big or really big, a Gray or a Red,

matter-of-fact leaping marvel of the bush.

Over coffee on a clear cold afternoon, the scientist

after 30 years still astonished at this route that

would never make it fully fleshed to MapQuest.

The Great Salt Road, The Great Silk Road,

nameless multiple alpha/omega

Great Roads of Blood and Pillage and Threat

and Greed—the human movie glitters

its awful special effects. What to make

of this world’s greatest, The Great Spit Road,

warm wool bent back, narrow shiny and soak.