A horse hair falls into the water and grows into an eel.
Even Aristotle believed that frogs
formed from mud,
that mice sprouted like seedlings in the damp hay.
I used to believe the world spoke
in code. I lay awake
and tried to parse the flashes of the streetlight—
obscured by the wind-sprung tree.
Stranded with you at the Ferris wheel’s apogee
I learned the physics
of desire—fixed at the center,
it spins and goes nowhere.
Pliny described eight-foot lobsters
on the banks of the Ganges. The cuckoo devouring
its foster mother. Bees alighting
on Plato’s young lips.
In the Andes, a lake disappears overnight, sucked
through cracks in the earth.
How can I explain
the sunlight stippling your face in the early morning?
Why not believe that the eye throws its own light,
that seeing illuminates
On the moon,
astronaut David Scott drops a hammer and a falcon feather,
and we learn nothing
we didn’t already know.