It seemed reasonable in those first few weeks
after the Elvis-costume-making party,
And also when the girls were young
and princesses seized control of the kingdom.
Now it appears, like nothing in nature
except perhaps a virus, traveling
from door-handle to palm,
falling off sweaters,
settling on corduroy.
Does it alight even on the hunter
deep in the jungle,
Sparking wonder at this sliver of starlight?
Does he worship the speck, tiny mirror,
Or sense the distance it traveled to connect
the enormity of this small world?
And what of his have I?