[An old poem, retitled and slightly revised for clarity.]

If the sun were a bowling ball,
It’s been said,
the earth would be a peppercorn
somewhere down the hill
across the street.

If the earth were a bowling ball,
but I’ve read
that its face is even smoother,
ocean deeps and mountain heights
signifying nothing.

Why then should I cross an ocean
and climb a mountain,
to tell the sun
my fascination with your face?

Better just to take you bowling
and smile to see
as the pins fall.

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