I would write
stars over sky,
to see the width beyond
to stare at less myth made of mere men
to stream past the scattered cast of silent unscribed lines:
the point of hip to
the angle of knee, then
achilles’ base and back curved best,
soft past to turned shoulder drawn to one wrist draped abreast;
but you baffled
over cloud cover,
leaking light and listless—
perhaps pollution or convenience
obscuring the points, the shine, the design.
Your array, the cut of your sway:
incongruent points and pointless lines askew—if
eyed from any ungrounded angle, as only distance, degree and magnitude;
but planted below, any where on earth,
and beheld from high, held in heavenly mirth—
the same sublimity, unique with symmetry
not naked so much as near and new each dew.
[nunc finis]