Dear Antipodal Who-Are-You, Polar Coeval,
Maybe you’re anachronistic hypochondriac
beset with longing for antique maladies:
Barber’s Itch, The Vapors. Maybe you’re proof-
reading pamphlets, eyes weakening each word,
maybe envisioning pigment in petrified insect,
color of its final prehistoric meal—bird’s blood?
grass sap?—intact. To reach you, oh, palindrome:
crust, mantle, outer core, inner core, and so on
backwards. Magical thinking, thinking
you physically opposite thus antithesis.
When bubbles cycloned clockwise one noon
in my refilled beer glass while live on television
my government invaded compounds, what
did you feel? Were you also like me drafting
catalog description for imaginary painting,
Landscape with Disclaimers, “For this blank space
picture grasses in which several winds contend”?
Is that how you squander days, so-and-so I’m lonely for?
Front page image by NASA.