THE SPHERE

If it were really there

it would look like

a crystal ball.

But it’s not.

It’s an invisible orbuculum, 

an imperceptible

orb that obscures

rather than foretells.

It detracts, impedes

rather than reveals.

It is the thing you and I

are separately polishing,

incessantly burnishing,

most of the time,

like a misted mirror:

the desire to look good.

Let’s remove it altogether,

the sphere, shall we,

so we can see, scry,

what’s really there:

a mystery

that’s waiting for us

to shape it, constellate it

into possibility

empty, finally, of all our

orbiting affectations.