My Love for You Is So Embarrassingly

grand…would you mind terribly, my groundling,
if I compared it to the Hindenburg (I mean,
before it burned)–that vulnerable, elephantine

dream of transport, a fabric Titanic on an ocean
of air? There: with binoculars, dear, you can
just make me out, in a gondola window, wildly

flapping both arms as the ship’s shadow
moves like a vagrant country across the
country where you live in relative safety. I pull

that oblong shadow along behind me whenever I go.
It is so big, and goes so slowly, it alters
ground temperatures noticeably, makes

housewives part kitchen curtains, wrings
whimpers from German shepherds. Aren’t I
ridiculous? Isn’t it anachonistic, this

dirigible devotion, this Zeppelin affection, a moon
that touches, with a kiss of wheels, the ground
you take for granted beneath your heels?—