If two pieces of the same metal touch
in space, they permanently bond.
Their atoms don’t know
how to be separate. Maybe
it’s myth, but I like the mystery
of not knowing. I like imagining
us as metals misunderstanding
your hands from mine,
where you end and I begin,
like a child’s tornado-crayon drawing.
I am not the first person to stare
at the night sky and feel
so marvelously small.
All those stars, all the exploring
astronauts have yet to do. Us, too.
Either way, I am certain
I could love you
the way a lunar rover loves a moon—
piecing apart your cracks and craters
until I have learned enough
to walk on you backwards, to fly
your rocks home to my people and say,
look! Look how wonderful.