the small image of the world
embossed in leather
resides rightly behind glass
hiding its secret geometry,
coursing latitudes and longitudes,
majestic oceans, its deep sea basins
full of salty tears and glowing after-life;
great ranges of mountains
enshrouded by cloud banks and cold still air
middens for a slumbering geology
lush valleys bisected by pulsing rivers
bounded always by deserts and tundra,
by horizons of blue and white,
by desolation, by oblivion
an invisible hand controls her,
pinioned between two fat fingers,
rotating inexorably,
suspended above his terrible visage,
gaping maw of the Creator,
perhaps he will swallow her like a grape
