Spin

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.