Friday, May 9, 2014

Globe rewrite


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 down on the table
Settling on my milky lens of coffee
Feathered in delicate drifts
Outlining a hand abruptly
Sent aloft in lazy flicks of the wrist
A vague wave
Robins might mistake
For unwarranted dismissiveness
Viewed framed from the teeming lawn
Unaware of this imagined
Tilted globe, unabashed
In my illicit spinning
Blister of the Atlas Mountains
Scattered braille of Micronesia
Over and over 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 round again, finger
Poised and aching above
A lonely blue planet. 

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