The only earth is inside me (violet streaks, a dense green).
A glass ball. A giant’s cupped hands. It’s impossible to tell, and unnecessary.
Afloat in the center my bones are budding.
The surface of this liquid silk might be a mirror, if there were anything for it to reflect -
in the dark there’s nothing to do but feel it.
I ask nobody where everyone went, and then you’re there as if summoned
and you’re smiling and your tongue is pushing the moon through your teeth.
I don’t ask you why you’ve kept it a secret, but I want to know why the water’s so warm.
You say, “It’s because of the stars.”
And for once you’re telling the truth,
and at once the tide rushes toward the baby moon you’re still grinning around,
and gaseous globes burn bright all around us
they’d fallen, they were under us all along.