The Onion

it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
The world is an onion, quite round
Pointed atop, of many rinds
With string-like fiber still bound
As common as anyone finds;
Has no center, except where it grows
Which is as any gardener knows
Another onion, and smaller minds
From this several things suppose;

No center have things, themselves beside
Or so it seems, but you realize
That the thing itself is not identified
But in paradox, and how precise
Is our knowledge of the whole
Not ever knowing it in full
But of what it is we still are wise
When it from the ground we pull;

I pulled a strange onion yesterday
It was shaped almost just as a man
I buried it again, and said, "anyway
Even onions do what they can."
I repented of this and dug it aright
Measured, weighed, and then that night
Cut it in two; but did not understand
What was written inside, by candle-light.

I buried them in the garden then;
Both parts, the left, the right
Strange that some inscription within
Grown-over, sometime passed out of sight;
The wind blows - the November rain
Each yet grows, the one and the twain
Each onion you see, has another inside
Order like Spring returns again.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
alien acid beast

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