The Sphere Painter (Vanishing Points)

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      I knew a man lived alone in the forest,
Just he and his wife in their house with a dome.
      She worked with puppets while he was a painter
Of spheres which, like curios, cluttered the home,
      Hung from the ceiling and clustered in corners,
Yes, spheres bearing bison, vast seascapes, and odd
      Optical puzzles with colorful patterns,
And each one was perfect, and all of them flawed.
      One afternoon in the old painter’s study,
He taught me the secret to painting a sphere.
      Picture yourself on a train track and notice
The points up ahead where the lines disappear.
      See the tracks running in all six directions,
Due north, east, south, west, down, then up to the stars.
      Render this world you behold, and remember:
The center is ever wherever you are.

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