Dear Mr Paul Blart Mall Cop you are the only man in America
to have called two berries two eclipses lunging softly at each other and
you ate them at the lake, this was astounding.

The camera caught you explain to nobody
that inside every person are two Mall Cops:
and one of them is Paul Blart.

Paul—can I call you that? Paul…
you are much like the moon, if only for the silver
gravity of your Mall Cop badge coaxing us all into crumpling,
so heavy is its distance.

Dear Paul—when you tuck in your shirt,
doesn’t your hand look much like that lone lilac trawler,
tucking the sea into the side of Massachusetts?

And Paul Blart, tonight the eclipse is like the Mall Cop lain over the Paul Blart, and did you
      see the black disc
falter on the moon-face and briefly break in two, like how the moonlight broke across your
      face, Paul Blart,
and for a moment, we saw America?

You walked completely outside of it.

You said – you thought – to nobody at all:

The red of the berries
               has stiffened.

Their weight
is

improbable.