Hold the camera like this, one might see 

            curvature, 

                                          bright smudge

 

a meteor crushed against 

            the atmosphere, and beneath

 

the dust slick of a country 

            where they bow each morning 

and pray toward their own dark centers

 

            for something like 

                                         a dark center.

 

Lower now, a woman walking a street 

turns her body into a storm of nails, 

                                                    a debris field

 

a string of men my brother trained and loved 

enter geared up, swearing

 

                                        this goes on forever

 

like this space where the planet hangs—

blue fluke, cosmic Tilt-a-Whirl, Wonder

 

            Wheel—

                             O Wary Eyed, 

O Weary Armed, we are floating on the rim 

of an aperture 

                             slowly closing.

 

You, who is 

                        not a thing, but a way of seeing, 

            and the drone of the nothing blessing 

of saying so—

                                                   See us.