by Frank Osen

I try imagining the earth I’ll be,
but find I can’t un-animate my plot—
can’t help but swell a hill beside the sea
with canyon oak, the odd forget-me-not,
perhaps some cars to carve a road below,
running up the coast and out of sight
past distant cities bathed in alpenglow
beneath a tiny, rising blip of light.
It pulses brighter as it climbs the sky,
resolving contours into continents,
reporting from its one unwavering eye,
what passes for a world’s intelligence—
Made to span the whole that spins around,
it spins and spins until it comes to ground.