Orbita
to Grimaldi
As you adjust, again, the telescope,
tracking the path of the Moon—
the speed of its travel astounds you.
And its silence.
All that light, all the weight
of the Moon's splotched body
flies with no flapping of wings
or grinding of wheels:
the odd hum of the ball accelerating
down Galileo's inclined plane
does not sing out as the Moon
rolls around Earth, which, you insist,
never moves from its spot
in the heavens—dead center—
where God, if you're quiet enough
and still, can always find you.
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