The globe stands in its measure
of light,
basking in its
artificial sun,
moving to and fro
in its wooden orbit
alongside wooden portraits
of other planets.
It is waiting,
There, in a dusty corner
of the museum,
with its nineteenth century map
of a forgotten world.
It is waiting,
to be moved,
to move,
to spin,
to rotate,
and to wobble,
In its own universe
caught, like Earth itself,
in one nanosecond of reality
that will never come again.