Verse 16
I first loved you as a measurement: elongation, magnitude, phase. It seemed safer to desire a number than a world.
I first loved you as a measurement: elongation, magnitude, phase. It seemed safer to desire a number than a world.
At dusk you appeared where the Sun had recently died, too bright for a star and too distant for mercy.
My instruments insisted you were rock beneath cloud. My eyes insisted you were a wound in the evening.
I learned your year before I learned the sound of her footsteps. Both returned on schedules I mistook for promises.
You show us phases because you borrow light. I wrote this in the report and did not mention that I do the same.
The telescope resolved no goddess, only brilliance sharpened by glass. That did not cure the old religion.
A planet does not flirt. A planet does not reject. It merely continues, and the rejected person invents verbs.
Your clouds hide mountains, plains, broken crust, and a pressure that would crush my ribs. Still the poets call you gentle.
Perhaps beauty is not kindness. Perhaps beauty is only the distance at which destruction acquires symmetry.
You rotate backward, slowly, as if refusing the custom of the system. I admired this more than I should have.
A day on you outlasts your year. Somewhere a calendar is laughing.
The Sun rises in your west. I wrote that sentence twice because ordinary language deserved one miracle.
People ask whether you once had oceans. We examine stones for the autobiography of vanished water.
If there were seas, they are gone. If there were songs, no vacuum has kept them. Yet absence can be mapped.
At greatest brightness you are not full. You shine most when partly turned away. Lovers should study orbital mechanics.
Morning and evening called you by different names until geometry exposed the trick. I envy the ancients their two Venuses.
To discover that two lights are one does not make the sky poorer. It makes division look temporary.
I named a crater after no one. The maps already have too many dead people pretending to own the ground.
I sent a signal knowing you would never answer. This is the purest form of prayer I have practiced.
The receiver returned noise. For several minutes I listened as if noise might gather courage.
There are hotter places in imagination, but imagination has no barometer.
Ninety atmospheres press upon your surface. Even longing would lie flat there.
Your sulfuric clouds are beautiful from here. Distance is the oldest cosmetics.
When she left, I watched you for thirty-seven evenings. This was not healing; it was calibration.
You disappeared into solar glare exactly when predicted. I was offended by your punctuality.
Then you returned before dawn. The equations had known you would. I had not.
There is comfort in a universe where something returns without forgiving you.
I no longer call you goddess. I call you Venus, which is only another inherited spell.
Tonight I close the dome before sunrise. The planet continues without witness, and for once that seems enough.