Copyright: 1993 By Me, Tata


The moon orbits Earth, which rotates
on its axis, revolving
around our sun, itself part
of the obloid Milky Way, turning,
and the galaxy careens
toward the fixed star Vega.
Sometimes I was a paralyzed
eight year old staring
at details of my house, knowing
every day revolution and rotation
placed me somewhere new,
in my room, on the stairs, in
the hall, and I’d be there only
once in my life, holding
absolutely still.

Now I watch you from houses
built by Smithson, Calvino, Borghes:
you spinning, you crashing
across dark studios as if the other
stars chose new paths,
you burning, you cooling red
and growing larger with the year
love’s tv experts say I’ll need
to swing back around.
This is too important to simply
I think, the ground moves
while I try to stand still.

I savor the blindness of motion;
before breakfast every morning:
Tell me more about Baudrilliard.
Even our most casual
acquaintances ask the weather,
the time; even your nearest
neighbor asks your opinion:
What could be hidden
in the folds of curved space?

You in candle faces, in hurricane
lanterns, the sudden warmth
of dusk: souvenirs of your
sometime passion, a pyrotechnic
cycle, Hiroshima’s shadows
burned into crumbling walls.
This planet loses its temperate
zones, this planet offers
up failures: polar ice caps,
Zamiatin, Comaneci, Billie Holliday.
I spin under your midday
smile, your desert night chill,
your rushing thaws; pivot
toward French doors, knowing
inertia propels, knowing
nova will consume, knowing
Vega speeds this way.

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