All that exists we imagine,
the great circle of the earth tilted
on magnetic lines,
minute organisms that dip and bob
in a glass of water-
all either too large or too small
to examine without instruments. Our fingers
can’t peel back mountains
to extract the molten peach pit
at the core nor charm bacteria
into a snake dance with the songs they drum.
that we move along parallels,
tropics that never converge,
in its own symbolic power to inscribe
the surface of the earth with its existence.
that we wind like thread around a spool,
strands of singularity, each
its own color and texture.
We imagine that it matters
what we think,
what we do,
what we say. We believe in ourselves
like geography, like science,
something written in a book--