Sputnik
by Olga Grun


You are not the Sun,

with warmth enough to kill.

Not Mars, redly belligerent.

Not the Earth, hosted by human molecules.

Not Venus, beautiful by breathing of disappearance.

Not Saturn; you don't have enough rings

to keep you inside, bounded, decorated.

You are the Moon, dull face

to influence the ebbs of confusion,

embraced by longing to belong;

not too far, not too close, always there,

attached to the Earth's sky

like a toy hanging from the tree.







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