in phases grows
and shrinks before our eyes,
thus we remark in public forum:
crops and tides and raging men in flannel robes
will all be pulled toward the sky one day in twenty-nine.
Likewise, the hearts of lovers pulse in long arpeggios, tight
contractions and expansions, independent of each other,
inexplicable yet somehow irresistible, they pull
toward reflected light in paling faces.
What lies we tell ourselves, what
blindness brought about by nothing
but our self-created shadows,
covering the fullness
of the brilliance
of our satellites
day to day,