from Intergalactic Love Song
I find your stellar parallax,
the gold freckles of your spinning body
dizzying. The distance between us
is not objective. My gaze is inscribed
in you. Your gaze is inscribed in me.
We lay beside each other,
the hem of my sleeve touching
its slender spiral arm.
Dew beaded the folded
flower petals. Night closed us
in its pocket. The Galaxy sighed.
We are so small, it said. Soon
we will disappear.
Wind lifted itself from the yellow grass
and stole moisture from our hands.
I think it's not worth it
to love anything this much, I said
but it wasn't listening.
I am drifting slowly apart, it said.
The wind took hold of a stray hair
from beneath my collar
and stumbled forward through the grass.
My body too is mostly
empty space. In the evenings, I go to the movies
alone, trade particles
with the man beside me.
At the onset of my journey
there was a voice.
I collected twittering stars,
I shook my paper sack
of smooth stones and shells.
Galaxy chirping with a tree-frog
in its heart, with a tribal band
of dust and ice.
Galaxy my instinctual pillow,
my perpetual feast, I gobble down
the fear of being forgotten—
I wake to swallow
strips of cold, leftover steak
in the dark, exerting
such feeble mass. Galaxy
with the eye of a purple phlox,
which by being is both perfect
and flawed. Galaxy with the
head of a moose, Galaxy moaning
with glaciers, the force
which compels matter to gather
is not enough, your grasp
on astral bodies is slipping.
You hide this truth
in your collection of stones:
the mode of all systems is
diminution. Diminution, who whispers
me each night to sleep. Lie down
with me, Galaxy, my cold, severed doll.
Someone is at the door.
We must be quiet and still.
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