A poem by Dave Bonta:

You Are Here, says the sign,
& a red arrow
indicates a dot.
This is the familiar dot
from the letter i,
from the hole
in the paper where
the compass pirouetted,
from the spots on your retina
where the sun returned
your gaze. The arrow
never quite touches it —
not because it’s too small
or too far away, but
because it’s too likely
to spill. You are here…
& you, & you, & you,
& you, & you:
the possibilites
are both endless
& predictable.
It’s a whole note, freed
from the five-line staff
to sing its monotone
song of yourself
for as long as
you’ll listen, thinking
it’s just you,
thinking you’re all alone
on this head
of a pin.