My house is where Point Loma's spreading root is joined to the continent, high on the cliff-side, where you walk up thirty steps carved in sedimentary rock to reach my door. I have three windows . . . one that overlooks Tahiti, one whose curtains billow with rare fragrance straight from old Shanghai, and the north-turned one, that funnels in the winds and spices of all Mission Beach and Newport Avenue.
The speaker describes the place where he lives, perched high on a cliff in Ocean Beach, where Point Loma meets the mainland, and reached by thirty steps cut into the rock. It reads like a quiet invitation to come and see. What stands out are the three windows. One looks out toward Tahiti, one carries the scent of old Shanghai, and the north-facing one gathers the winds and spices of the nearby neighborhoods. None of these places is actually visible from a San Diego cliff, so the poem asks us to read the windows as imaginative ones: the ocean and the air seem to connect this small house to the whole world.
The tone is warm, proud, and a little playful. The speaker doesn't boast, but clearly loves the home and the way it holds distant places close. Given the title, it makes sense that a geographer would experience a house this way, as a spot where the whole map blows in.