As if inspired by
talk—of those
locked and edgeless oceans,
swimming imaginary
inside the
factually tangible
hearts of so many
frozen, disavowed
former planets—
just by one glance
in her small dog's
bottomless black eye, she
swears she would
bet a million dollars—
it contains a wet
secret or two
that could (depending) either
rend or sire,
either drown
or inspire
countless trillion billions
of future civilizations,
all those competing gravities
of their fleeting
generational theories,
all of their valiant
hopeless pretensions toward forging
any artifice that tries to last,
and the one mundane thing
common to all creatures
which grants them
any validation for having
lasted this long at all—
that simple
comfort of feeling—you're being
looked-after.
