Blue tilted pupil
staring at heaven,
a child's small hand
can set you spinning.

Countries and borders,
like cataracts,
float on your surface
as passing facts

arranged by history,
shifted by wars,
erased by time
like dinosaurs.

Artifice, too,
that web of lines
crossing the sphere
on which we find

ourselves all alone
like aliens in space,
observing continents
flow down your face,

while you on your own
are ignorant of pain,
geography's game plan:
simply remain.

But should we vacate
your azure premises,
who will there be
to measure the distances

from ocean to landfall,
from equator to cap;
who will there be
to color the map?

No matter. Don't worry.
It's not your concern.
Another sun sets,
another Troy burns,

as you circumnavigate
the core of your being
- empty dead air,
cardboard and printing.