Sometimes we forget the world's curves are a polished orb. 

Sometimes we forget that bear-backed hobbling homosapiens 

dragged themselves from trees to spaceships.

Sometimes we forget that we are spinning

and that our minds, too, are spinning, 

spinning like the twirl of a dreidel as firing

synapses glint the startling flash of silver. 

Sometimes we forget that we cannot control that spinning, 

and that despite those ivory flares and our

tenacity and the vigor with which we wind

and wind and wind and wind and then release—

Grasping… 

flailing… 

falling. 

I wanted to remind you that the world is still round. 

I wanted to remind you that the flesh upon our backs 

will one day remerge with dirt, and that 

as we quail six feet beneath, our genomes 

will no longer froth with dynamism.

I wanted to remind you that we cling to livestock like cavemen 

clung to splintered spheres. Indeed, we are spinning, but

I wanted to remind you that the ball joints of our minds 

churn as axles in a windmill, sitting

atop a larger, indifferent rotary.