Howard Firkin
(the lowest orbit)
Around and round we go and never find
an edge to fall off. Longitude’s a con:
you’re warmer, hotter, cooler, colder—gone.
Each new location only part defined,
although you’ve done the latitude before.
I don’t remember ever being here.
I don’t remember waking, wishing you
had used the name of somebody I knew,
and feeling flat as rings of last night’s beer.
Another day reveals another shore.

Time is position. Check your watch. Replace
the figures. Plot each spot you orbit: low,
but regular as any mass in space.
I might see you around… (And round we go.)