on the distant cliff of a table.
Up close, it draws you in,
cuts everything down to size.
Look at it from the doorway,
& the world dilates & bloats.
The button lying next to it
is now a pearl wheel,
the book of matches is a raft,
& the coffee cup a cistern
to catch the same rain
that moistens its small plot of dark, mossy earth.
For it even carries its own weather,
leaning away from a fierce wind
that somehow blows
through the calm tropics of this room.
The way it bends inland at the elbow
makes me want to inch my way
to the very top of its spiky greenery,
hold on for dear life
& watch the sea storm rage,
hoping for a tiny whale to appear.
I want to see her plunging forward
through the troughs,
tunneling under the foam & spindrift
on her annual, thousand mile journey.