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.