Globe
A globe would be nice
here by this open window
morning pushing in on the hip
of spring, warm from slow dancing
against the screen
straining the grating weave
sifting over the table top
settling on the milky lens of coffee
feathered in delicate drifts
around the outline of my hand
abruptly aloft in lazy flicks of the wrist
a vague wave
the robins might mistake
for unwarranted dismissiveness
viewed framed from the teeming lawn
unaware of the tilted globe
I’ve willed into being
unabashed in my illicit spinning
the blister of the Atlas Mountains
the scrambled braille of Micronesia
again and again and again
beneath the palm of my hand
Haiphong Harbor
hot on the heels of a sprinting Havana
the world in seamless rotation
on the table of a minor god
eyes closed
waiting for you to come back around
finger poised and aching
above a small, blue planet.
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