The thick sky, studded with sparks,
wheels above our awed eyes,
our accepting minds. Our chemistry
denies anything else: we are
too minute to move like that, too small
to be anything but stunned
by the steady whirl of the stars overhead.

And yet the motion of those bright bodies
is made by us: our small globe
spins on its invisible axis
from west to east. There is no such thing
as a celestial sphere, slowly rotating
around us from east to west,
carrying the weight of the stars
with it. We are the mover,
the stars like fixed points, poised
and patient as we turn, and turn again.