We know the trepidation of the spheres
and distances measured in beams. How near
does each arm of Donne’s compass
reach, like spider filament for a truss,
spinning across a growing galaxy?
We orbit the blackness by degrees,
our stuck faces, like Charon and Pluto
stretched beyond a desperate sostenuto,
searching for how to agree
on our topography.
- Diana Smith
This poem originally appeared in the Spring 2011 volume of the Jackson Hole Review.
This poem originally appeared in the Spring 2011 volume of the Jackson Hole Review.
