Invisible Pivot

Much as mass warps gravity,
Concentrates it in itself,
There are weird coordinates,

Shared centers of gravity,
Like the one the Earth and Moon
Orbit around constantly

In their waltz with each other,
That are more or less empty
But are centers nonetheless.

You, your soul, your personhood,
Which is not a thing as such—
Not Descartes’ pineal gland,

Not mass for psychostasia—
Is one such coordinate.
Real masses, human bodies

And their cultural inputs,
Feathery materials
Never immaterial,

Rotate around your center,
Your more-or-less empty you,
And you join the dance they do.