The mother word, word of words, must pull everything in range to its skin if not its core. It must set one’s head awhirling. It must whelm the mouth when spoken, and clobber the senses when confronted. It must include everyone everywhere. Forever. And so, world, Middle English, from the Old English weorold, also appearing as warld, wardle, werld, werlde, worlde, worold, worolde, woruld, wurlde, that’s the word for me. Such surround-sound amplitude, such magnetic force. It cannot be got outside of. One must hew to its basic requirements or succumb to its anguish. “World. World. O world!” Made of everything and nothing. —C.D. Wright
My only readily recollected use of world is in a poem titled “Crescent” ending:
later beneath the blueness of trees the future falls out of place: something always happens: draw nearer my dear: never fear: the world spins nightly toward its brightness and we are on it.