It’s time now to put away the words,
the nonsensical phrases I wrote
in the back room of this house.
It’s time for the cat to stop sleeping
through my snappy recitations,
as if she’d rather hear Walt Whitman
or Louise Glück, anyone but me.
Away with the globe, the one I like
to spin and stop with an index
finger at those random locations
I’ve promised, in time, to go:
Mongolia, the Congo, the Kola
Peninsula south of the Barents Sea.
And even though I’m home now
I will put it all away, to read
each piece for consequence and
conspiracy, perhaps a bit of irony,
then spin the globe again to stop
with a finger, hopefully over you,
weeding the garden, moving
as you do so well, around the sun
without a sail to take you
in a leeward breeze of memory.