Globe

(The Farrier's Account)

Driest at the equator and the poles—
as though the tundras and the dunes expressed
a single rasping tongue... Yet there’s a fool’s
silver the tundras clutch against their breast—
a secret frozen hard. How would it sound
if it were thawed, were aired? If they confessed,
allowed their brittle armour to be ground
into the dust of moisture, what fresh cry

would issue on the farrier’s account?
Those summits can’t persist in secrecy
as though they weren’t a notion to the world.
Their hails could stir and elevate the seas,
their floods could gloss and shine the deserts’ gold.