Glasses of Water

Easily one of my favorite pieces, resurfaced:



I had a dream about the earth last night,
held out on a string and spinning
in the palm of my cupped hand.
I was surprised at the size
of the North American Coast,
so small next to the ocean, blue and pretty,
nearly clear in the sunlight, hot
and full of toxic air;
And of the greenness of the grasslands,
envious, and warm
with the billowing winds from deserts
and the body heat of beasts.

And I dropped it, the little thing,
a marble of an Earth,
into a half-full/half-empty glass of water,
and watched the ripples break the tension
on the surface of the question
and answer it, an affirmation
of a lack of knowledge of the world.

So I tipped the glass
and watched the flood of water crash
over the edge of the granite countertop
and cascade onto the floor;
splashes of blue, of green, and of gold;
of melted earth, and boiling magma;
of eight ounces
of tainted kitchen tap.

The End of the Earth never looked
so lovely, a stained glass puddle
on heaven’s ethereal floor.
I mopped it up in quite a hurry,
afraid of what punishment lay in store
for me, the one who held the earth
for answers and for nothing more;
for me, the one left waiting there
to answer when God came to my door.

I had a dream about the earth last night;
I watched it spinning in my hand.
I was surprised at how at home I felt
looking down on the little planet;
The mountains like rooftops from such a view,
the clouds just puffs of milky water;
and me, somewhere, on the surface,
too small. Even for God to see.