This poem is not about anything else.
The globe you hold in your hands
is the only earth there is.
You may not begin until
you first imagine how the skin will feel
as it slides under half-moon nails.
Unfold the mercator projection.
Pull East from West, dig the Atlantic
with the ball of your thumb.
The tart contraction on your tongue
is an unknowable future
you must for now ignore.
Concentrate instead on the Himalayas.
This is a tectonic moment,
a necessary geography.
Let Ptolemy be your tutor.
This is the epicenter,
history in your hands.
When you have seen the sphere naked,
felt the rind at your feet,
then, entertain the taste.
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