From space, a ragged
scar. Someone’s
named it beautiful —
Most Beautiful —
and its history’s clear,
though the picture’s
distant. Five hundred
miles away, the moon
is a hatchet of silver,
prepared to slip into
whatever earth needs
cutting. Five hundred
miles away, the stars
are locked in dark, are
breaking with us as
we sleep, breathe, or
can’t. You’re in my
heart; I’m in your
hand. This world —
glass upon inversion —
is a mirror in which
greater figures exist,
in which, waiting,
they remain.