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.