Her Body is a Globe

Her body is a globe,
and before you laugh
at the thought,
just think,
your orbit is aloof
and hinged to her curvature.

She looks through the lens
of her father's telescope,
as we rest uncomfortably
on the driveway's agrigate slab.
She does all the work in bringing down
the moon a little for me.
For a while we marvel
at the landscape -
the cratered mess -
of a place we will never go.

Her body is a globe,
I close my eyes
and search her topography
for a hand, for lips,
but her atmosphere thins
and is gone.

Eventually we turned our backs on the moon
and tried to focus on a cluster of stars,
but we couldn't find them in the lens -
squintning and searching through the glass.
Only our unreliable eyes could hold them-
our faulty eyes that can manipulate
any cloud to be anything.
We could only know the stars from far away,
as they were, something that used to be
on fire, but is already dead.