Assuming you are a compass,
the white jet flies
into an eastern orange sky.

No clouds or bird’s eye views
of city or farmland grids
to distract you,

it has nothing to do
with compassion.

If when the plane lands,
you keep it this way,
photographs you take

will be in focus.
Voices will convey words
you want to digest.

Local will mean local.
It has nothing to do
with compassion.

What you know
will be what you know.
Your memory will kick in

(or not). No one
will tell you

what to taste
or what it tastes like
on your tongue.

You will remember
you have toes and elbows
and earlobes.

There is no east or west
pole. The top
of your head will tingle

in a good way.
It has nothing
to do with compassion.

Feel free
to cry over the death
of department stores.

Your hiking boots
will arrive
by special air cargo.

Who knew your feet
could get so big.

If a person takes a selfie
and never posts it
on Instagram or Snapchat

or Tumblr or Pinterest
or even Facebook,
does the photo exist?

Does the self really exist?
It has nothing to do with compassion—

how you can become you again
without needing
to be recharged.