The great globe of the world just spun under the brass scythe stills. As if that atmosphere might be shorn off. Adjust the lens over the legend. We lived here, at the end of my finger. The warm spot where every line meets. I  hardly  know that place. Serpents and krakens curl through fine inked seas. Caravans must trundle — there — bearing festooned lemurs, green salts, pilgrims. Enough poring, Ephemera. Turn on a light — you’ll go blind is what you said, very gently. Now light heaves it self in through the glass. Now the telescope is almost useless.

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