By Mary


 

I'm told the earth, by astonishing,

miraculous coincidence, is precisely

the right size to cast a round shadow

of exactly correct proportions to fit

entirely upon the moon's surface.

I'm told this casually by the man I love,

as if it were common knowledge, as if

 

it were true. Perhaps it is. I need it to be.

I need, all the time, for something to be true.

A globe casting its penny into heaven's river.

What to do with such a silvered ship?

And how do I keep my feet planted

on this hot sidewalk, dying of thirst,

bottle of water in my hand?



 

 

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