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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