One Fourth of July sparkler
          held overhead
could fill his empty stomach,
          at zenith
the size of midnight, unseeable
          without bearings.
One small sun. Ripe watermelon
          seeds hurled
to heaven, unfurling sandpaper leaves
          blossom down
his ankles: Ophiuchus, too wide
          to draw
with all ten fingers spread.
          Three stars
are not enough for borders,
          anonymous edges
whose large girth goes unremarked,
          bosom ignored,
without a truly dark sky
          for balance.
The vine shakes my grasp;
          Ophiuchus climbs
down, hand over hand, leaving
          me room,
R.A. and dec without derision.