Read by Ernest Hilbert
We examine the ratios of spheres: Pluto
an atom next to the moon, the moon a freckle
on the skin of the sun, the sun a gold fleck
in the eye of Pollux, itself dwarfed
by smoldering Antares — there is always
something bigger. Later, I pack you into me
like a Russian doll, and we draw the curtains
of our eyelids against the freeway’s distant glow,
foglights combing the walls of our tent
like spectral fingers. Morning reveals
we are surrounded by Winnebagos. Still
the blue-eyed grass hosts the violinning
of crickets, the skirring parabolas of rattlers
through the prairie, a wildness audible
around the edges of the parking lot
we mistook for wilderness. There is always
something smaller to knock out of your boots
in the morning. From the pink constellation
of bites on your ankles we infer
motivation: You’re sweetest here. And here. And
here where the yellow-gray vertebral earth
holds our thumbprints for a moment before
turning to chalk, and here where the glass roof
lets the sky inside, and here where the tourists
snapping pictures are a brief galaxy
of flashbulbs refulgent as stars.