There sits a globe on my bookshelf, across from my bed. Sometimes I look at it

 

at night, when it’s hard to sleep, and I think about all the different places painted there.

 

The eastern edge of Brazil gawks at me over its rough shoulder,

 

Nairobi gives me a knowing wink, tells me to close my eyes.

 

 

How do we fit all the world onto this little canvas ball? Thousands of miles

of Alaskan shoreline cut sharply against the tan backsplash,

with a little golden compass nearby pointed off in some crooked direction.

I’d like to think that somewhere out there are huge walls of dark gray paint

erupting from the Atlantic floor, some jealous god marking the meridians of his territory.

 

 

What does it take to fit all the world into something that can sit on my bookshelf?

I grab a picture off my corkboard,

and smile a bit remembering something from 3 years ago.

An era of life fitted neatly onto 4×6 photo-stock, RGB laughter filling out the edges of a

2d memory in my hand. I don’t remember paper cuts being as big of an issue back then.

 

 

I see life stretched across continents; naive hopes anchored to dubious corners

not yet mapped by the cartographer. My hands and feet lie

where islands become sketches of great squids and mysterious water beasts.

I let my leg hang off the bed at night and pretend it’s the edge of the world.

I remember when you all felt so much closer, but the world is so big now.

And things are so far away.

 

 

What would it take to fit the world back onto my bookshelf?