From "Peoms (sic)."

There's a rainbow across the moon.
The sun is still in view.
The clouds are all askew.

It's a wild world.

I stumble home - weary.
No purpose. No answers.
I crumble easily. Try it and see.

When the world gets too heavy, I have to put it down. I have to change it around.

GREETINGS! from the planet of human torches.
All too real - and they ask what it means.
The first real poem I ever wrote was called "Worlds." Now, you tell me.
A design so intricate, so subtle, that it's overlooked.

"You live in a box," Russell said.
"Not so," came Tommy's reply.
I suggested it may be a box with a removable lid.

"Life's a circle," I said.
"Maybe a tree, branching off," was Tommy's offering. But, later he said, "I think I have it: a sphere!"
A sphere.
Moving in a circular pattern, yet varying enough so it's always covering new ground. Like a circle, but reaching like a branch.
Yes.

But when the world gets too heavy, I have to put it down. I have to change it around.