Round

It's hard to tell

that the face of the moon

is as much like a man's

as god's. Out yonder,

in the world without us,

who's to say? —

Either we get in the way,

or things make use of us.

Half-way around the globe

from where they started,

the static sound of starlings

echoes off the barn roof.

Spider weave in the spokes

of wheels, and stars

circle unsuspecting suns.

Little do we know,

the world has a talent

for making itself at home.

Meanwhile, we paint our self-

portraits on everything

imaginable, then hold

them up like mirrors.

Our mercurial brushes

grow longer, our skills

more acute. Dust clouds

the vision, tinder

to the eye. So we burn

trees to save the forests, burn

air to fly afar. We do, we say.

We can. The time

is close at hand. Time was

(said a man)

you could tell the weather from the moon.

That was before another

broke the quicksilver distance

and walked all over it.

Now you can't tell a thing.

Alice B Fogel, "Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear" from Elemental. Copyright © 1993

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Haimbaugh Round Barn 2018