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 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment