The famous athlete doubts the planet
is round and sweet. Its magnetic navel
adrift escapes like leaves turned dryly
underfoot. The moon, so
immense you can smell its breath,
demands its sugar like your Great
Aunt Ginny. A flame deflates atop
a skull. So sweet, this scent, so many
flies. Éluard writes, “the Earth
is blue like an orange.” Watch it quiver,
as on a Globetrotter’s finger. The universe,
a smoke-filled soap bubble, dances
iridescent in space. She aims the ember
of her cigarette at the moon in a puddle.
She shoots. Its extinction makes a swish.
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