Could anything in the universe
really be this coincidental?
Whether it call itself—
gravity or grace,
science or poetry;
if it wasn't unnatural,
if it didn't sound insane,
if it wasn't superficial,
If I wasn't predisposed
so regularly
to claim
in public, to know
better, I'd say
it's more properly—
the sun
who gets up
and charges
out to play
every day—
upon the celestial,
capricious, and tortuously sophisticated
topography—of every
one of your
three hundred
and sixty
five or six
possible faces.
