My Love for You

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 wherever
      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 anachronistic, this

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