She carries the weight in stride, young man, her heart is a medieval knight's armor, glinting fragments of soft light, and if the bubbling constellations that splash against soapy outer space had their way, they'd snatch her back up to keep her all to themselves, but instead they hang above, and watch her try to keep this unhinged city intact.  Throw her to the moon; she will land on her feet. Good heavens! Do not look with your eyes, but with your soul, and here sandwiched between library aisles, you've found her, you've found a revolution.